


Coming Clean

by Girl_chama



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Cassandra's Disgusted Noises, Classic Rock, Day At The Beach, Depression, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Embarrassment, Emotional Roller Coaster, Empathy, Epic Friendship, Fantastic Movie Choices, Fluff, Fluff with substance, Fourth of July, Gen, Introspection, Jellyfish, Karaoke, Late Night Conversations, Medicine, Modern AU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Road Trips, Siblings, Sleep, Slow Burn, Taco Bell, but then you have friends, compassion - Freeform, friends make life better, handling conversations with maturity, josephine is the most amazing host, lots and lots of introspection, sharing is caring, some people are assholes, sunscreen tropes, sweet dreams are the best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:56:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 45,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3480410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Girl_chama/pseuds/Girl_chama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally based on the prompt, "The walls in this apartment building are really thin and I can hear you having mental breakdowns all the time are you okay?"  In which Cassandra acquires help for a friend and sets off a catalyst for friendship, growth, comfort, and healing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tachy

She heard it starting again, the pacing of heavy boots tromping on the floor above her. It always started this way. Soon would come the interspersed banging- walls? Fists? She was not sure, and was not sure she wanted to visualize the source of the rhythm. Then there would be a few shouts of self-doubt, prayer, arguments with the woman who sometimes came. She only arrived when things were truly desperate. Finally it would crescendo, not in violence or emotion, but in a soft crying that the thin walls of her apartment could not dampen.

They shared opposite floors of a duplex, she and her struggling neighbor. She had seen him a few times in passing- good looking, too, but he worked night shift while she kept to her day time university schedule, and they had never said more than hello to one another. Between her clinicals and his odd hours, they could go days without seeing each other. As tiring as his episodes could be, they were almost the lifeline for their anonymous relationship. At least when she could hear him, she knew that he was still alive and that he had not given into whatever demons haunted him so frequently.

The first loud crash sounded without even surprising her, and Regina looked up from her text to watch the ceiling. Almost as if she could visualize his feet, he made another loop on his floor, and then- BANG.

With a deep breath she stood and moved into her kitchen, searching for earplugs, when another loud pounding caught her attention. This one was coming from her door. She moved with hesitant feet, the noises upstairs and the sudden arrival at curious odds with one another.

Through the peephole she saw a woman waiting, her own eyes turned upward as if looking to the pacing man. Her expression was impatient, and the lines of her face said she wore it often. The uniform she wore was the same that Regina had seen on her neighbor in their few passes of each other.

“May I help you?” she called through the door and the woman’s jaw tensed.

“My name is Cassandra Pentaghast. I work with the police department,” she introduced herself hurriedly. Her words were almost clipped, “I need your assistance. Could you please open the door?”

“Are you here in an official capacity?” Regina called back.

“No, I am not.”

Teetering in her judgment, but curious, too, Regina unlocked the deadbolt and cautiously pulled the door open until the chain was taut. While Cassandra looked into small opening, Regina could see that she was indeed wearing a full uniform. She was also wearing a satisfied expression that could not be mistaken for a smile. 

“Yes, it’s you,” she breathed, and Regina wondered briefly who else she would be, why her identity needed confirmation. “Please, come with me. My friend is… unwell.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

“I’m a medical student. How would you know that?”

“Cullen mistakenly received some of your mail from the AMA. I returned it to your pigeon hole.”

Regina’s eyes cast upward, making the connection, “My neighbor?”

“You don’t even know his name? He’s lived here for three years now.”

“And I’ve lived here for three months.”

“Ugh.” The officer grimaced, and then the impatience in her face was painstakingly eased, before she spoke simply, “Please.”

With a sigh, Regina closed the door, unlocked it and followed the woman, closing it firmly behind her. Up the stairs they went to the door with a two-oh-one designation, where Cassandra did not bother knocking. 

She followed the short-haired woman into the surprisingly well-lit room, unsure of what she had expected. Darkness? Thick curtains? The smell of decay and male college student? But it was clean, well-maintained, and only as shabby as her own old apartment below was.

The pacing was still going on, footsteps infinitely quieter here than downstairs, but they stopped entirely when Cassandra called, “Cullen.” There was a sigh so loud it blew from around the corner, where Cassandra promptly directed herself. Regina followed with only slight hesitation to the kitchen, where she confirmed her neighbor’s presence and distress.

His apartment might be clean, but he looked… well, to say out of sorts would have been kind. Even in his profile she could see that his curly hair had been roughed to its ends. There were dark circles under his eyes and his lips were bloodless. Cullen was hunched forward over the sink, scapulas cutting through the line of his back as his hands gripped the counter. His knuckles were painfully red. Regina quietly spied for alcohol or scrip bottles, but she saw nothing.

“I told you, I’m fine,” he rasped in greeting. His baritone might have been pleasant in other circumstances, but it was clear that he was not ‘fine.’

“Bull shit,” Cassandra called, striding to him without fear or patience. At his side, she beckoned Regina closer with a crisp jerk of her head, and Regina obeyed.

Cullen turned, saw her, and the weariness in his face morphed into annoyance laced with distress. He glanced to Cassandra quickly, without turning his head, and then back to her as she closed the distance.

“You’re-“

“Regina,” she said as she extended her hand. In this state, she did not want to give him the opportunity to say something he might regret. She knew shame when she saw it, knew what defenses it could raise in the battered. “Regina Trevelyan, your neighbor.”

“Cullen Rutherford,” he answered as he took her hand with a rather put-upon sigh. He shook it gently, and she noted the clamminess of his hands as he began to pull away. 

“Do you mind?” she asked gently, capturing his wrist. He shivered and then tamped down on his body’s impulse to shake but did not pull away from her. She tamped down on her empathy and looked him in the face as she measured his radial rhythm. Beside them, Cassandra watched the interchange as if she might watch a would-be pickpocket.

A few seconds later, Regina lowered his wrist, “You’re tachy… and sweating. Would you like some water?”

“I don’t need a nurse,” he groused, and departed towards the adjoining living room as his calm thinned.

“Then you shouldn’t have called me,” Cassandra retorted, following him at a more leisurely pace.

Regina watched and kept silent, wondering how many times this particular drama had been acted out.

“You told me to call you when…” his words trailed, as if by admitting them aloud he might admit he was somehow deficient.

“And you most certainly should call me,” Cassandra nearly barked at him as he dropped onto the couch like a stone. The contradiction made Regina’s head spin, but Cullen seemed no more perturbed by the hounding than he already was. “But you can’t expect me not to reach out for help when you give me a scare.”

Needing something to do, Regina turned and began rifling through the cupboards. She found a glass while Cassandra continued to shout at her- partner? Friend? Fellow officer under the law?- and filled it with water from the tap. There was a towel hanging from the oven handle that she also took and made her way to the couch.

At her presence, Cassandra stopped ranting, earning an approving nod from Regina, who sat next to the slumped man. His current posture hid a great deal of his height, but his size and posture were the least of her worries at the moment. She pressed the glass of water into his hand and then the towel to his sweaty forehead. He took both without complaint.

“I’m a student physician,” she corrected him calmly. He looked at her with some confusion and she smiled wryly. “Not a nurse, though that would be no shame. Do you mind telling me how long has this been going on?”

He took a few gulps from the glass, and then apparently decided it was the right thing to do because he finished the rest of it before Regina liberated it from his hand. She passed it back to Cassandra with a nod for a refill.

“Six months.”

“Eight,” Cassandra corrected, and Regina glanced at her, then back to him.

“Eight months,” he amended, and she nodded before handing him the second round of water. 

“Ever feel like talking to someone?” she followed, and the flash of agony across his face told her more than any words could.

“To what end? I’m enduring.”

“You are,” she agreed without condescension, but did not add, ‘but not progressing.’ Still, the two small words were enough to catch his glance, as if he had been waiting for someone to throw him a bone. “Tell me about work,” she prompted and his tentative appreciation dissolved into confusion. Even Cassandra looked suspicious.

“Work?”

“What do you feel like before work? After work?”

Then the understanding dawned, and he sighed, “Work is good. Work is… focus. Distraction.” He swallowed, and then his hands started accompanying his explanations and he became livelier than she’d seen since she walked in. She felt something in her heart ease as he settled into a comfort zone. Work- clinicals was something familiar to her, as well. “After work is… harder.”

She nodded and asked, “Do you have any hobbies? Friends you like to spend time with?” His silence was again telling, and she wondered if it had always been the case or if he had pulled away from those absent friends. Worse, did they pull away from him, unable to handle the burden of what he was working through? Cassandra seemed like the bulldog type, and Regina felt a sudden rush of respect for the woman.

In the quiet, she turned to bulldog and asked, “Would you go downstairs and get the book I was reading, please? Also, on the shelf next to the TV are three things on the top, far left. Get those too, please.” For a moment, she looked as if she was going to question the request, but Regina’s eyes shifted and Cassandra went.

She took a deep breath, not feeling very wise in being alone with a stranger who was even slightly unstable, but she asked anyway, “Have you been diagnosed?”

Cullen barked a sudden laugh and would not meet her eyes, “With what? PTS? Adrenaline withdrawals? I’m not sure they have enough paper to hold my ailments… They run the gamut.”

Regina allowed herself a small laugh, “Most of our charting is electronic these days. You might be surprised.” It pulled a small smile from him, mostly to appease her, but he said nothing else. “My brother,” she began, thinking of Henry and his stupid smiling face, “experienced PTS after two tours with the One Hundred and First. He probably had it before the second tour, but he’s… Well, how do you know? How can you tell someone that what you agreed to do is killing you? I can’t imagine how hard it was for him.” How hard it had been for him and their family. If not for Josie, they might have all fallen apart, but the story was not about the Trevelyans. It was not really even about Henry.

“Anxiety turned his pain into a physical ailment sometimes, and with all of the other workings in his mind…” She shook her head. “But perhaps what was hardest was feeling like he couldn’t burden others. Couldn’t reach out because of the shame of some supposed weakness, or because even the people closest to him might not understand.” Cullen did not look at her, but the focus on his face promised that he heard every word.

In a gamble, she reached out and placed her hand over his, “We don’t understand. How could we?” And this question did draw his attention. “But it doesn’t mean that we’re going to stop trying. We’re not going to leave you behind.” It’s the ‘we’ that caught his ear, and then his eye, but Regina knew what she was saying. She knew what she was about when she asked Cassandra to bring her homework up.

“What happened to your brother?” he asked softly, and his eyes searched hers for a lifeline.

She smiled and said, “He and his partner Josephine are living quite happily in Florida- of all places; a shame, too, because they leave so near the beach and yet they never go... and they have a dog.” Cullen smiled, too, and at that point Regina wondered if he was projecting to his own future, visualizing something wonderful for himself. She hoped so.

“It’s not as if it’s never hard,” she assured him quietly, respectful of the moment, “but he’s learned to trust those around him, and that seeking help is not a weakness. It’s a sign of strength.”

Cassandra returned with a disgruntled look on her face. She dropped the textbook into Regina’s lap, earning an, “Oomph!” and a pinched look. Following it were three DVDs that drew Cullen’s attention, and Regina grinned before she held them up each in turn.

“Labyrinth,” Cullen announced, wary.

“A movie about finding family, and finding yourself,” she answered with a pedagogic smirk. He still looked unsure, though, and she held up the next movie.

“A Few Good Men,” he read, and this one at least seemed to resonate with him. She left the understanding to him without commentary and held up the third movie.

“Star Trek II. The Wrath of Khan?”

“A movie about revenge and overcoming- about how far friends will go for each other,” she answered, more quietly. She refused to be embarrassed by her nerd interests, not when Leonard Nimoy cinched every heartstring in her chest and did not let go.

“Which one do you want to start with?” she asked, while Cassandra cleared her throat.

“I have to be leaving. My shift starts soon.”

“In two hours,” Cullen corrected her, showing more spirit than he had since Regina arrived.

“You’re right. I just don’t want to watch these frivolous stories.”

“Not UFC enough for you?” Cullen jabbed, and she rolled her eyes.

“I had her pegged for the romcom type, myself,” Regina teased, but the sudden curl of Cassandra’s lip affirmed more than denied the labeling. Smirking, Regina let the woman go and moved to Cullen’s DVD player. Before she departed entirely, Cassandra returned with two heavy blankets. Apparently, she knew her way around the apartment. She tucked one around Cullen, who at first looked like he was going to complain, and then almost at once like he was too comfortable to bother. The second, Regina was surprised to find tucked around her own neck, and Cassandra clapped the approximation of her shoulder heavily. She felt as though she’d been initiated into some charming secret society ready to go adventuring. Or perhaps just sit and watch a movie.

As the scene opened into a meadow-like park, an owl perched above the landscape, Cullen turned and said, “Regina?”

“Yes?” she asked, torn between cracking open her textbook and watching Sarah grow from a spoiled child into a young woman.

“Thank you.” Just two words, small and quick as they ever were in their language, but so heavy.

Regina nodded, and her gesture reached back across the expanse, “Any time.”


	2. Attendance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This friendship goes both ways.

Cullen comes back from an 18-hour shift to find Regina in his apartment. He’s more surprised that their schedules have lined up than the fact that she’s here, but that does not mean he is expecting her. She is at the kitchen window, a bottle of Yuengling in her hand, sunlight turning her hair into a warm russet tone, and her shoulders drop with a heavy, silent breath as his footfalls hit the tile.

“You have a much better view than I do,” she says by way of greeting, turning to face him. The skin beneath her pale eyes is dark, and her brow is furrowed.

“Uh, thank you? And hello…?”

“I hope you don’t mind,” she says to explain her presence. “I had- it’s been a really, really shitty day, and my apartment was kind of closing in on me.” He knows that feeling well, and she knows he knows it, from the times she’s had to have heard him pacing but was kind enough to leave him to it.

Still he can’t resist a gentle dig, “But my walls are stable, and don’t close in?” He’s only teasing, but the sudden fluster in her body, cheeks coloring and shoulders hunching tell him he’s missed the mark.

“I didn’t snoop around or anything. Cassandra told me where the spare key was and- No, you’re right. Why am I trying to justify? I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Hey, calm. Calm down, please. I was only joking. You’re welcome here anytime you need.”

She nods, not quite convinced, and takes another swig from her beer. His beer, really, but he’s not going to be a jerk about it, not when she’s already missing the other jokes.

Her shoulders fall, but her face still looks troubled, so he asks gently, “Why’s your day been so shitty?”

She shakes her head, “Do you really want to know? Or are you just asking to be polite? Because it’s kind of… _heavy_ , and I don’t want to burden you too much.”

He smirks and goes to retrieve the last of the beer in his fridge, an oatmeal stout Cassandra left last time she was over. He wonders when he became a man who has more female friends than male, and finds that he doesn’t really care about the answer.

He pops the can tab and says with an eye roll, “You don’t have to watchdog me _all_ the time. That’s generally Cassandra’s job.” She says nothing, half-smiling, and just shakes her head.

Then she looks away, remembering.

“My current clinical is at the downtown VA. It’s part of the reason I wanted this apartment.” Cullen frowns as he nods. He knows the place. He’s been to it more than once, participating in extended honor guard for fallen soldiers, men and women he never knew, but _knew_.

Regina begins speaking calmly, factually, staring at the ground in front of her as she recalls the details, “There's a captain; army, retired. She was a nurse in the First Gulf War.” Cullen nods, though she is not looking at him. He was barely an adolescent then, and Regina likely has no memory of it, but war is war, and if she’s been working at the VA then she knows the effects.

She’s _his_ friend, too, after all.

“She didn’t receive injuries in the conflict, though. No, she made it out alive and mostly healthy. Married a civilian, a banker, I think,” she says, and spits a ‘tsk’ like it’s foul-tasting. “They’ve been married for thirty-ish years.” Her head is shaking, and Cullen wonders at the spouse. That’s the crux of the ‘shitty day,’ he knows before she says it. His eyes narrow, and Regina continues. She is still not looking at him.

“Two months ago, she had a stroke. She has aphasia- she can’t speak. At _all_. She’s lost all function and sense in her right arm. There were other symptoms, too, but thanks to my attending and the PTs in acute care, she’s made so much progress. _So_ much progress.” She waves the beer like a baton, to emphasize her words and then the floodgates open, “Two months… she’s worked and worked- her husband was there every day and we explained her prognosis. It’s unlikely she’ll ever speak again. She’ll never lift her arm again. She can’t cook. She can’t help around the house. She can’t _drive_ herself. It’s unlikely she’ll ever do any of those things again, but we _explained_ that to her husband, and he understood, nodded and repeated our words back to us, so we thought everything was ok… Everything else…” She lifts off the counter and begins to pace, finally glancing at him as she underscores each word with pride, “She can _walk_ , she can _dress_ herself, she can _feed_ herself. The **only** personal task she needs help with is washing under that right arm when she’s in the shower. You’d think that if you were married…”

She stops and takes a long draw off the bottle. Cullen is momentarily tempted to tell her to slow down, but it’s only her first, and she’s not quite in a lather yet. She smiles at him, shaking her head once more, “She’s supposed to be released tomorrow. Administration has already arranged transportation home for CYA.” He half-smirks at her, nodding as she bites her lip. “This morning, my attending and the lead PT came to talk to walk the husband through the process of home transition. They were halfway through the discussion when he said, ‘So why are we talking about discharge? She can’t cook. She can’t clean. Who’s going to do these things?’”

Cullen draws up short, staring at her with understanding, and finally she begins to nod.

“Yeah, he- I can’t even say it. Two months! Two months, he’s been there every day, and he’s supposed to know what she’s going through and then he just suddenly-”

“Hey,” Cullen says, reaching forward to lay a hand on her wrist. The calm word, the calm touch anchor her and she shakes her head one more time, taking a deep breath.

“He wasn’t satisfied with her progress, progress she’ll probably never make. He sent her to an assisted living facility without even discussing it with her. Rather, he told the therapist that since _he_ was the one in charge of her acute care, _he_ would have to be the one to tell her that she was going to the facility. The asshole wouldn’t even deign to tell his wife that… She’s going tomorrow.”

As she finishes, she rolls her hand to grab his wrist, squeezing it as Cullen sighs heavily. He leans forward and wraps his free arm around her before she tucks her chin over his shoulder.

“She needed so little, and he just _abandoned_ her… _Why_ are people so shitty?” she asks quietly, her anger spent in the revelation of her story.

“Because they’re people,” he answers and her chin digs a little deeper into his shoulder. He frowns and tucks his head against hers. He has not expected her to be this sensitive a person, but it does not contrast with the woman who, two weeks ago, was marching into his apartment and all but ordering him to watch fluffy movies. “Because they feel out of their depth or afraid or…”

“You’re not supposed to defend him,” she grouses as she relaxes, and Cullen smiles at her fondly.

“I’m defending people, not one asshole…” Her frown slowly shifts to a half-smile at him and she pulls away enough to finish her beer before sniffling. Cullen lifts his own can and asks gently, “How did she take the news?”

“Ugh, she’s so dignified. It should be impossible for one person to have so much dignity, especially after what she’s experienced… and she knew who it was- who made the decision. She knew.” She looks down at the empty bottle, rolls the neck between her fingers, and then looks up at him with a surprisingly troubled expression.

“Am I in the wrong field?”

He holds her gaze at the sudden seriousness of the question. It’s one thing to be angry and loathe another person for their heinous actions. It’s another to be so doubtful as to question the years of work behind you, and yet neither feeling is foreign to him. For a moment he is glad of the experiences he’s had, hard as they’ve been, if only so he can give her this wisdom.

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head gently to emphasize the point. She frowns at him, unsure, but he does not relent, does not bend. If she expects an easy answer, she is most definitely in the wrong place.

“But I’m not sure I can do this. If I feel like coming apart over one case? And this isn’t even the worst that’s going to happen… I know it already. Do I just need to harden my heart?” That thought startles him enough that he closes the distance between them and drops a steady hand on her shoulder.

“Your compassion is a _strength_ , _not_ a weakness. Maybe you need to learn to harness it differently, but don’t try to deny it entirely. That’s- that’s not a recipe for success.” He pushes her back gently to lean against the counter and then takes a stand next to her. “It _is_ hard. It was never going to be easy, but you make it better for those on the other side. Can you imagine what would have happened if your team hadn’t been there to tell her the news? She would have been taken from the VA straight to a nursing home without any warning. It would have devastated her.” He shakes his head while Regina scowls in anger at the possibility. “People like her need people like you.”

The scowl diminishes and Regina twists her bottle again. Silently, Cullen passes her his beer, which she takes just long enough to sip from before passing it back to him.

“I suppose so,” she agrees. “And people like me need people like you.” Her half-smile, barely a twist of her lips warms him, though. He slings an arm around her shoulders for a rough hug, trying to downplay how much those words mean to him. “Still hurts, though.”

“Well,” he says gently, and disengages from their hip-to-hip stand to move to the other side of the room. “I may have a treatment for that.”

He reaches for the remote control as a hopeful, “Netflix?” is called from behind him.

He turns and grins, happy for the dopey smile on her face, “Netflix. Now… I have three choices for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, this is a true story, and I wrote this chapter mostly for catharsis. It blended well, imo, given the relationship that a soldier with PTS and a young, inexperienced doctor might have.


	3. All of Your Goodness

She’s nearly home when her mobile starts trilling. It’s two in the morning, and she’s just finished studying at the library with Cole. Any call this late is not going to be good.

With a tap to her wireless device, she calls out a wary, “Hello?” before a familiar voice blurts into her ear.

“Regina, thank God! Where are you? I can’t get Cullen to pick up his phone.” Cassandra.

She does not need to ask why the woman is worried. It is the nature of their schedules, and this relationship, that they rarely speak unless it is about Cullen. For a few minutes, Regina forgets about finals and her upcoming summer break. She forgets about the plan to continue studying with her learning team tomorrow and that her prospective four hours of sleep are dwindling away before she can protect them.

“Where was he when you last spoke?” she asks as she turns onto the last street before their duplex.

“Taco Bell,” comes the breathless reply, sounding relieved at her investment.

Regina’s face scrunches, her head tilts, and she asks warily, “Taco Bell?”

“Don’t say it like that,” the other woman mutters hurriedly. “He only eats bad takeout when he’s very distressed.”

“…Fair enough,” she responds, trying to recall when she has last seen Cullen eat anything that has not been prepared at home.

“Well, and on top of that, the department is pushing him to seek counseling. It was our captain, I mean. Cullen has not taken the push well.”

“Leading with that would have made you sound much less unreasonable,” Regina says tonelessly.

“Trevelyan, I’m two hours away from finishing a double. If I don’t fulfill your requirements for proper American grammar, whatever that is, and classical introduction of new topics, I’ll trust that you’ll forgive me.”

Regina listens to the slight tirade with an eye roll and decisively refrains from snapping back that she is tired, too. That unlike Cullen and Cassandra she doesn’t work one day on and two days off. That, here lately, she is _always_ on.

Instead she diverts, “Isn’t counseling a good thing?”

“Of course,” Cassandra responds, one hundred and eighty degrees more agreeably. “But if you look at it from Cullen’s point of view, he only interprets their motivation as a perception of weakness.”

“All right,” Regina sighs, pulling in behind Cullen’s SUV. His patrol car is in the driveway, and he’s left enough space for her to pull into the two-car space. Yet the lights in his apartment are off, and she’s starting to share Cassandra’s worry of what state he might be in. “I’m here,” she announces. “I’ll call you back if I need anything. If you don’t hear from me, assume everything is fine.”

“I would prefer if you would call me, regardless,” Cassandra utters, and Regina frowns.

“Well, I’m not a cop, and I don’t file reports, so you’ll have to trust me on this one.” She barely hears the grunt of assent on the other end of the line before she hangs up, but it _is_ a sign of trust that Cassandra does not call back immediately.

It’s a quick walk to her apartment to drop off her study supplies before she heads upstairs, but there’s no answer to her knock at his door. She pulls out her key, having finally made a copy instead of always relying on the spare, but the door stops abruptly only inches after opening. It’s been chained on the inside. She feels a spike of worry that pushes any annoyance for Cassandra into an abyss.

“Cullen?” she calls gently, trying not to let her own worry through. If he’s in there, and he has to be, she doesn’t want to startle him.

There is a sharp, “Regina?” asked from inside, Cullen’s voice, and she feels her fear recede like an expelled breath. If _she_ could only remember to breathe. Before she can respond she hears his familiar tromp. Through the sliver of access she can see him swinging around the corner, approaching the door quickly, but it’s dark inside and she can’t see his expression.

All at once he grabs the door and slams it closed. She jerks back and waits, but there is no sound of the chain rattling. Only Cullen’s voice comes through, “Go home, Reggie. Tell Cassandra to leave me alone.” The statement is so harsh that it feels surreal. He- he can’t be serious. He must be testing her.

Except Cullen has never shown himself to joke in this way. His sense of humor is not cutting, not hurtful. He’s not teasing, but it does not mean he’s not testing her, even if he doesn’t know it.

 _He wanted to push us away_ , she hears Josie’s voice in her memories, and her heart aches all over again.

“No, Cullen. Now open up,” she responds firmly, one hand against the door as if she might be able to force it with her will. There is silence again on the other side, but that includes his heavy footfalls. He’s standing there, maybe against the wall? Maybe looking at her now through the peephole?

“Just go _away_ ,” he demands.

She turns and squares her shoulders, eyes focusing on the narrow viewing point. It’s too dark inside to show anything at all in the inverse view, but if he’s there, he’s going to see her. Her fist bangs three times, as if to cut a path through his doubt.

“Cullen, the nearest neighbor is over a hundred feet from here,” she reminds him, hoping to curb his embarrassment as well as his tenacity. “I can do this all night.” Regina breathes heavily through her nose. She’s supposed to meet with Cole at seven in the morning, only a few hours from now, but of all people he will understand her need to renege.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs through the door. The string of words that comes after is all but swallowed by the barrier between them. She’s not sure if he means please go away, or please stay. If she can’t understand their exact meaning, she can still feel their desperation.

“Cullen,” she says, trying to balance between the volume necessary to be heard and a tone gentle enough to reassure him. “Please, just open the door.” She cannot help but think that _this_ is the man Cassandra knows. This is the one who keeps their friend awake at night, who pressures her to call at two in the morning to check on him.

“To what end?” he snaps back. “So you can come in and tell me everything’s all right? That everything will be OK if I just try a little harder? If I just make myself stop… _**feeling** _ this way?”

Her forehead drops against the door, and after a heavy sigh she says, “Clearly, everything is _not_ all right, but… it’s _OK_ that it’s not all right. No one can be all right all of the time, especially not after what you’ve experienced. Do you know what I mean?” There is silence again, no sound of movement, and she wonders if he’s listening. She hopes he hears her. “When Henry came back, nothing was right. Even good days were like shells of what was supposed to be, but he-”

“No one cares about your fucking brother, Trevelyan, so just _leave_!”

She draws back at the shout, her fingers curling against the aluminum. For a moment the air is heavy with tension, and then she swallows down the hurt and takes a deep breath.

“I’m _not_ leaving. I’ve already told you. If you don’t want to talk about Henry, then why don’t we talk about you, OK?”

She waits and waits. “…Whatever you want to say, I’ll listen. I care about you, and what you _think_ and what you _feel_ , and nothing you can say is going to change that. OK? So I’ll stand here all night if that’s what you want, but I’m not leaving you.”

 _He wanted to push us away, but I wouldn’t let him_ , reminds the warm, familiar accent of her brother’s lover.

With tension in her jaw and an ache her chest, she once more leans her forehead against the door. Then she waits. There is still silence on the other side, and she wonders if Cullen is rubbing at his neck, if his head is bowed, if his shoulders are hunched, if maybe he is crying.

She closes her eyes and sighs, just as the chain on the other side begins to rattle.

Like a whip crack she pulls away and stares at the sliver that will open first. When it does, enough to tell her that it is completely unlocked, she waits for a count of three and then gently pushes. In the hallway beyond, Cullen is leaning against the wall, wearing a t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants. His feet are bare, grasping at the thin carpet as he begins to slide to the floor.

He turns, shifting the drop into a heavy sit, but it still looks painful, and Regina does not hesitate to sit with him. She moves slowly, afraid to jolt him out of this momentary calm, or spur him into some less pleasant reaction. When she crouches and then slowly relaxes against the wall, he will not look at her.

He is larger than she is, even with his knees drawn to his chest and his arms around them. He will always be larger, but at the moment he feels small.

“It always hurts,” he speaks first, his tone dry and flat, as if he has not just been shouting at her. She shifts a smidgen closer and waits. “You think that tomorrow will be the day. Tomorrow you’ll wake up and feel normal again. Feel like yourself. You keep pushing on with your life, keep waiting. They say everything takes time, but how much time to do you give before you realize it will never be the same again?”

His pain lances at her like sinking her foot onto a waiting nail. It hurts, sharp and clear, but it’s not surprising at all. She wonders if that makes it worse, the anticipation, and she wonders if this is what he lives with every day. Briefly she considers if she’s meant to answer his question, or any that come after, but her offer has been to listen, not to speak, and he’s barely been given the chance. So she takes a deep breath and gently drops her hand on top of his.

‘I’m here,’ the touch says, ‘and I’m not going anywhere.’ His shoulders hunch forward at the contact, but he still does not look at her. Would she see tear tracks on his face? Or worse, nothing at all?

“I didn’t mean that about your brother,” he says at length, quiet and frail. It’s the first time tonight he’s sounded even close to normal, and she hates that it’s only because he’s so delicate right now.

“I know,” she returns, just as gently.

“I just…” She can hear him swallow.

Her fingers squeeze his gently and he sighs, so she feels able to say softly, “It’s hard to care about other people when your capacity is eaten up with your own problems, but it’s OK.”

“I don’t- I’m not supposed to be the problem,” he responds, and her heart holds itself still so not to break for him.

“You’re _not_ a problem,” she assures him. Still gentle, but firm. “But you can’t deny the experiences you’ve had. You also can’t wait them out.”

His head rolls back against the wall. She can at last see one of his eyes. It’s dark, but it still doesn’t hide much. His skin is pale, but his eyes are clear. At this distance she could smell if he’d been drinking, but he’s clean. All of the weight he’s carrying has started in his head, and God knows it’s even heavier for its origin.

“They think I’m a burden to the department,” he shares, his brow dipping into a furrow.

“They’re _worried_ because they care about you,” she assures, trying to rewire his concern.

“Cassandra called you?”

“Mhmm. What I wouldn’t give to have someone like her championing me the way she does you,” Regina murmurs with feeling, still watching him. He does not move for a moment, and she wonders if it was the wrong thing to say. It’s meant to be encouraging, not binding.

“Cassandra is a very good person,” he agrees slowly, but it sounds like a shunt to something else, and Regina is already there, throwing her hands up to stymie the flow.

“And you know her, her character. I don’t think she could lower her standards to associate with someone any less worthy than she is. What I mean is, you’re a good person, too. It’s probably why you two are such good friends… because you’re so alike.”

He chuckles, and she feels her heart lift, even as he says, “I don’t know if I should be offended or…” She’s not so unsure of herself that she needs to follow with more humor, so she simply waits and gives his hand another squeeze. _I’m here_ and _I won’t leave_.

The clock on the DVD player says it’s nearing three am.

Cole will be more than understanding.

“Cassandra was the first one to suggest the counseling. It’s what the Internet says. It’s what everyone and their brother would say if given half the chance.” The vehemence in his words is only partly masked by their speed, the thin air speaking them.

“You trust Cassandra. You trust your coworkers… Why would they not give you sound advice, or more importantly, why don’t you want to go?”

There’s another pause, another wait, but this time Regina can see it’s not a matter of finding the right words to say. This time it’s a matter of finding the strength to say them.

“Because maybe _going_ would be admitting that I’m broken.” She watches his head roll forward onto his knees, the first shake of his shoulders. The words that came after are chopped with stutters and hiccups, “That there’s no point in trying. That everything good about me has already had its time and is done,” and her fingers cling to his hand.

Oh, her friend… What moment has he come to? Is this his fulcrum?

“Oh, no. _No_ ,” she sighs, leaning toward him to put her arm around his hunched back. “No, Cullen, you’re wounded. You’re not _broken_. You can heal from this.”

Her words herald a silence that is only broken by Cullen’s crying, and soon after, she feels her own tears falling. He deserves so much better than this pain. What was he doing before she arrived, besides sitting in the dark and clinging to his misery? Would she have thought to check on him if she had not heard the stomp of his boots? Cassandra deserves all the fruit baskets and romance novels money can buy.

After a while, she ventures, almost timidly, to ask, “Will you… would you…”

“I’ll go to counseling,” he says, sitting up so that she has to retract her arm. She stares at him as he finally turns his full face to her. It’s puffy and wet, and she resists the urge to wipe at his eyes. It’s only concern that she feels, but she doesn’t want to embarrass him further. He’s scowling as he says, “I don’t have so much pride that I would rather live feeling this way than to have other people think badly of me.” His sigh is shaky as he tries to master himself, but then with a quick sniff he asks, “Is that what you were going to ask?”

“I- No. That’s not what I was going to ask, but I think it’s a good decision.”

He nods, saying, “Thank you.” Then his voice thins out again as he adds, “I… may need extra encouragement to see it through.”

“Of course,” she says without hesitation. She means it, too. Her grades are good enough, her rank high enough in the class, that she could take off some time if she needed to. The break is coming up, too. Though she might have to change her plans. It would be worth it, to see her friend succeed.

“What were you going to ask?” he interjects, breaking into her thoughts.

“Oh, it was a little silly. I was going to ask if you wanted to go to Florida with me.” He stares down at her, prompting her to explain, “I have a few days off in summer semester for Independence Day. Josie and Henry invited me down to, you know, go to the beach and eat hot dogs and set off sparklers… I know it sounds wild and crazy, but it’s pretty low-key. I mean, they have a huge dog that looks like Gmork from Neverending Story, but is actually a big doofus. His name is Gus, but I call him Dumdum.” She’s rambling, she knows, but she thinks it would be good for him. To get away from this city, out of the District, and maybe to a place where someone could understand what he’s going through. Really understand, instead of just subbing in a warm shoulder. It makes her feel like a pretender.

“It sounds… nice,” he says, effectively ending her poor sales pitch, and she stares at him. He’s also smiling slightly. “I’ve never been to Florida.”

“Well, it’s only Destin,” Regina adds faintly, “So you probably shouldn’t get too excited. I mean, we’ll have to drive through Georgia, which is definitely where they filmed Deliverance, but also where they make Coca-Cola, so maybe…?” She ends with a half-hearted shrug, but Cullen is smiling genuinely at her and it feels like they have reached stable ground.

Perhaps the night would not have been anything more than this- crying in his apartment alone. That would have been awful enough, but he’s a police officer, and somewhere in this apartment is a weapon with complementary ammunition… Her mind does not want to go to possibilities further than that.

“You know, no one will think badly of you,” she says with all of the conviction she can muster. “It’s not weakness to get help. It’s wise, and it’s strong. You are both of those things, and many other good things, too. All of your goodness has **not** passed you by. Not even close…”

His face contorts with her words, and she wonders for a moment if she’s put her foot it in it again, but he only leans forward and wraps his arms around her. He doesn’t squeeze, he doesn’t pull her, just holds her there. It’s permission she did not need to ask for, and she meets him the rest of the way to return the hug, squeezing purposefully, not painfully.

“Destin sounds good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of feelings about this chapter. I started writing a story with a character who has experienced some very nasty things. For the purpose of this story the 'what' he has experienced is less important than his reaction to the 'what', and though I wanted to write about a friendship that comes after the fact, it would be rude and unfeeling of me to simply gloss over what people who experience PTS go through. I have not touched on half of the possible symptoms, which vary from person to person, and probably have not expressed the feelings very well, but I have tried to do so with respect and honesty. If the resolution seems to occur quickly, that's more a reflection of how Cullen, in game, is ready to overcome but just needs a little extra push.
> 
> I've also tried to convey some of the reality of when these episodes might occur- never "conveniently," but when a person who genuinely cares about another is present, they just do it. They just do whatever they need to for their friend. So, yes, like I said, lots of feelings. Thank you for reading :)


	4. Destin, Pt 1

“Who’s ready to be navigator?” she is singing at him, far too chipper for a pre-dawn departure.

“I suppose you want that to be my job?” he asks, angling a hand into his pocket for the keys.  The SUV’s oil has been changed, tires rotated and balanced.  The O2 sensor’s broken, but hell if he’s going to drop another forty for a check engine light.

“Uh huh!  As well as playlist-maker-slash-radio-station-finder and road trip window markerer!”  She is grinning as she slips her fingers around the keys and gently tugs them out of his hand.  He squints at her, wanting to debate.  It is his vehicle, after all, but she is clearly more awake. 

“I’m not sure I can handle all of the responsibility,” he responds dryly, and her grin is all teeth.  She is cackling as she heads for the door, the prospect of freedom having already gone to her head and out her ears.  Cullen snorts and climbs up the sidestep into his seat.

“Sass is good,” she’s grunting as she drops herself behind the wheel.  “We’ll need to keep our spirits up for the long drive.”

“How many hours is it, again?”

“Minus five points, Navigator, who is supposed to know the course already,” she says cheerily, then adds, “Fourteen.  Oh yes, _fourteen_.”  She buckles her belt as she slips the keys into the ignition.  “ _If_ we drive the speed limit.”

“Which we will most certainly do.”  That is non-negotiable.

“Hmph…” she counters, cranking the car, but it is all she says.  The tank is already full, and he sees her notice the gauge, but she says nothing.  “Fifteen hours with breaks for gas and potty.”

“Potty?  Really?  Does this mean we’re going to play car bingo and eye-spy, too?”

“Navigator, if you could evenly distribute the sass instead of throwing it all at once, that would be helpful.  Besides, I can’t play car bingo because I have to drive, and I can’t take my hands off the wheel while there’s a cop in the car.  I’m totally down for eye-spy, though.”  

She already has coffee in hand, and he does not drink the stuff, so their beginning is otherwise unhindered.  The Beltway is already alive as they head south, but it’s nothing like it will be in a few hours.  Regina is sipping her drink and making sporadic mentions about which songs to put on the playlist he is making with her phone.

“Ke$ha is _not_ going to be stuck in my head for the next three days,” he says flatly, countering the latest argument.

“But this is Fourth of July weekend, and she’s _so_ American it hurts.”

“We’re trying to avoid hurt, remember?” he asks, and there is a moment of silence before she hums.  It’s a little underhanded of him, but all he has to do is breeze past words like ‘pain’ and ‘hurt’ and Regina wavers.  She hmmms at him, knowing well enough when he is in true distress and just annoyed.  Even so, she caves for Ke$ha, but puts her foot down at classic rock.  

“Wait, we just listened to them.”

“ _That_ was Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

“And who is this?”

“Kansas… Remind me to give you a lesson in good music before this trip is over.”

“Well, we still have thirteen hours to go, and neither of us are thinking about charts or reports.  Want to start now?”

There are Slim Jims and donuts, and other bad road food.  Even without drive-through takeaway, she seems determined to undermine his healthier eating habits.

“I swear, I normally don’t eat Little Debbies like this.  So please don’t judge me.  Ugh, why does it taste _so_ good?  How much sugar do you think is in here?”

“Hmm, the package says 47 grams.”

“What?!”

“Per bite,” he adds.  The face she shoots at him is so horrified that he cannot help but laugh.

“Better be glad Hippocrates is standing between me and you...  OK, next stop milk.  Wait- don’t!  My complaining about it is not permission to eat my snack cakes!”

“Actually, I think that’s exactly what it means,” he interjects.  “Larger creatures are able to withstand high sugar content better than smaller ones.”  She rolls her eyes and he sings at her, “Road trip ru~ules,” so that she laughs away whatever feigned annoyance she might be holding onto.

They sing along to Journey and Blackstreet and Imagine Dragons.  If the way Regina starts veering onto the shoulder is any indication, she thinks he has an excellent singing voice.  It’s nice for his ego, but not so much for his lifespan and he carefully stops mid-verse to cautiously point out her slip.  He’s proud when she eases back into her lane instead of jerking the whole car and laughs before Don Henley starts crooning at them.

The first stop is four hours into the trip.  It’s a leg stretch and top off, mostly the former, but Regina is quick to try and make it to the pump to pay.  Cullen is faster and checks her with his hip, wallet already out.

“Milk, remember?” he prompts, even though she hasn’t touched a sweet in two hours.  His voice is steady and satisfied with victory.  She scowls at him.  Her sigh is heavy and put upon, but her arms around his waist are light.

“Thanks,” she says, and pulls away before he can tense.  Then she’s stepping away, asking, “Water this time, yeah?  I mean, maybe a soda or two becaaauuuse-”

“Road trip rules!” they sing in unison, the first catch phrase for the weekend.

They stop in North Carolina for a second stretch break and she makes him take awkward selfies with her in front of the World’s Tallest Chest of Drawers.  It’s more for Cassandra than Instagram, but if she gets a few more likes, then hey, what’s the harm?  In Georgia, he suggests they stop in Atlanta for a quick tour of the Coca-Cola factory, but Atlanta traffic turns out to be worse than DC and before they’ve even hit the northern suburbs they agree to bypass it.

They do stop an hour south of the city for another gas fill up, at which point Regina beats Cullen to the pump, exclaiming, “It’s practically half the price here that it is in DC!  How is that even fair?”  When she looks at Cullen for confirmation of incredulity, he only gives her a mild smile.  “Wait- is that why you’re letting me pay this time?”

He says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” and takes a walk to stretch his legs.  Regina would scowl at his back, but if he can’t see the gesture, it’s a waste.  Besides, all she really wants to do is smile, anyway.  She’s trying, maybe harder than she should, for this trip to be happy and light.  They have both managed to snag a five-day weekend with no work, two days of which will be spent driving while the three in between are sand and family and fun.  That he’s made the effort to join her, to try to relax and put some distance between himself and his recent episodes… All she can do is try her best for there not to be any missteps.  So if he wants to be a cool friend and pay for the gas, well, she’s a broke-ass med student and he’s got a solid job.  It… it definitely doesn’t have to mean more than that.

Cullen returns from the walk with two baskets of the biggest peaches she has ever seen in her life.  Each is nearly the size of a softball and yellow, splotched with orange and garnet.

“They called them ‘bathtub peaches’,” he shares, and this time he routes her to the passenger seat.  “Apparently, you’re supposed to eat them in the bathtub.”

“Oh, I’m glad the name didn’t give that away,” she snarks, as she climbs into the navigator’s station.  She snags a peach from the basket before he shuts her door and begins rubbing the fuzz from its skin.  Half a minute later, she passes it to him as he maneuvers into first gear, and he takes a confident bite while wheeling them back to the interstate. As the name has advertised it _is_ too juicy, and he is suddenly sucking at the flesh to prevent a mess. He doesn’t prevent the obscene slurp that cuts through the noise around them, and juice rolls down his chin anyway, but he looks happy as they merge into traffic.

They are rolling at seventy miles an hour again before he speaks over the wind filling her ears, “This was a good idea," and she knows he's talking about more than the peach. She grins, so satisfied with his contentment that she could burst.  Then she takes a bite of her own peach and inhales sharply as flavor rolls heavy over her tongue.  He smirks at her as he takes another bite of his own fruit, and silent consensus passes between them.  One of the baskets will not make it to Henry and Josie.

Mid-Georgia and southern Alabama pass them by in rolling hills and mud-covered pickup trucks.  Pecan trees dot the edges of the interstate, promises of groves farther into the interior.  The afternoon sun turns everything about Cullen golden, and she looks away to keep from staring.  It’s much warmer here than DC is, and even with the constant air flow her skin feels like she’s been walking through the rain.  Cullen’s hair looks like a frazzled cotton ball, but neither of them suggest rolling the windows up.  It’s sunny and the air is clear, and there would be no correcting a discomfort that doesn’t exist.

She makes one Deliverance joke the whole time, consisting of a bad “dee-dee-dee” humming of _Dueling Banjos_.  Cullen raises an eyebrow at her, she explodes into self-amused laughter, and two hours after sunset, they arrive in Destin.

The main drag is a four-lane road that downgrades into two lanes as soon as they turn north.  He counts eight liquor stores, two go-kart tracks (”Please tell me there _will_ be go-karting,” gets a “Hell yes, there will!”), and three oyster bars by the time they turn away from the Gulf.  He’s surprised by the number of trees, but a comment on it only gets a distracted answer from Regina, who took over the driving just before they hit the state line.  She knows her way around the area well for someone who has not visited in over two years.  The turns are easy, she knows which traffic lights to avoid, and she’s already stopped paying attention to her printed off directions.

When she finally slows, she’s murmuring to herself, “five-forty-seven, five-forty seven.  There it is.  Finally.”  

They pull into a driveway with two other vehicles, and Regina reaches for the horn.  Her palm is firm against it when she suddenly retracts her fingers, and there is no blast.  Her eyes find Cullen’s and she smiles softly.

“Almost forgot.”

“But not quite,” he says with some gratitude.

She nods, “You ready?”  He smiles and returns the gesture and both begin unbuckling.  He’s been briefed on Josephine and Henry, as well as Gus, but he’s still not prepared for the contained energy that greets them.  They have been waiting, and they appear in the doorway even without the car horn.

Gus is barking like a riled monster, and Cullen thinks he looks far too large for the house they live in.  He is not taking a step nearer to it until the Caucasian Shepherd says it’s OK for him to.  Regina is having none of it.  Two years removed or not, she suddenly shouts, “Dumdum!” and the dog’s whole body stills before it charges her as if its won the dog lottery.  Her hands are in his shaggy mane, grasping his long jaw, roaming over his back.  It’s obvious that he doesn’t care as long as he’s being touched, and finally he topples.  It looks like someone has knocked over a mountain of fur, but Regina just laughs.

“How is it that the dog gets the first hello?” a man’s voice carries over the yard, and Cullen looks up to see a taller, more masculine version of Regina approaching. Dark-haired and pale eyed, with a wider chin and identical mouth.  At his side is a dark-skinned, dark-haired woman with a warm smile curving her mouth.

Cullen can hear the smirk in Regina’s voice as she offers, “Probably because the dog ran out here to meet me instead of swaggering.”

He sighs in response, even as he’s lifting his arms to hug her, “My sister, sassing me like a damned grown up.  I think I’ve lost the ability to can.”

“God save us from your vernacular,” she laughs, swatting his back in an easy hug.  When she pulls away from him and turns to Josephine, her enthusiasm is less reserved.  She’s practically squealing as she throws herself at the woman.

“Bienvenido, hermanita,” the new voice greets easily.  Regina just grins as the two sway in an emotional embrace.

Just as Cullen is beginning to feel like the outlander, she abruptly turns and says, “Henry, Josie, this is Cullen Rutherford; navigator supreme, tenor extraordinaire, and all-around gentleman scholar.”  Despite the bolstering in most of the attributes, Cullen feels his chest warming.  Regina is grinning at him so sweetly that…  

“Uh, she’s- laying it on pretty thick,” he manages to laugh through his downplay, even as Henry takes his hand in a firm grip.

“Oh?” her brother asks curiously.  It’s clear that he’s not convinced.  “Don’t worry.  We’re only going to ask that you be yourself, whoever that is.  I’m Henry.  We’re glad you guys made it down.  You have bags?”  Regina is still smiling when she points to the back of the SUV and Henry moves as Josephine extends her hand to him.

“Josephine Montilyet, and I’m rather excited by the prospect of hearing the ‘tenor extraordinaire’ part.”  Her English is lovely, wrapped in an accent that is as welcoming as her smile.  

“Pleased to meet you,” he responds, trying not to squeeze too hard.  She’s still smiling, and she’s still welcoming, but Josephine’s eyes watch him like she’s trying to measure him.  Even more than Henry’s gaze.

“How was the trip?” she asks.  When his eyes dart to Regina, she stops hovering next to them and moves toward her brother, waving her hands as if to say, ‘Okay, I get it.’  He’s not annoyed by her protection, even if it is unnecessary.  He’s smiling when he looks back to her sister.

“Fun,” is his honest answer.  “We stopped a few times, so I’m not even that tired.  I’ve never been to Florida before so they road trip was… interesting.”

“Oh yes, we saw the World’s Tallest Chest of Drawers.  No taste in them, but that was probably beside the point.”

“Peaches!” Henry suddenly shouts, reappearing with bags slung over both shoulders and the basket still full of peaches in one hand.  Josephine gasps and clasps her hands in front of her, turning an appreciative glance on him.

“You brought fruit!  How very sweet of you!”

On his way to the door, Henry already has a peach in his mouth.  He mutters something at his partner, who frees the fruit and begins nibbling at the opening he’s made.

“I meant the basket,” he grouses with a roll of his eyes, and Josephine laughs.

“I know very well what you meant,” and she takes another bite of the peach.  He's still frowning as he steps away, but Josephine quickly shoves the peach back in the direction of his mouth and takes the basket.  The smirk she turns on the newcomers is very pleased with herself as she asks, “Shall we go inside?”  Then she turns after her partner to guide them forward.

Cullen glances back to see Regina with a bag slung over her shoulder and the trash from the car in her free hand.  She’s managing it well enough, but he’s in her path on the sidewalk and when he doesn’t move from it, she stops.

He extends his hand in a silent question for the bag, and she says, “It’s OK.  You’re the guest.”

“But you’re also a guest?” he attempts, already knowing that he doesn’t want to press the issue too far, but wanting to help.

Still, it’s a bit of a surprise when she relents, gently unyielding as she is with most everything else.  He lifts the bag off of her hip, giving her enough moving space to free herself from its strap before pulling it on his own shoulder.  She steps up beside him, her hand against his shoulder before it falls in a casual drag.  But his tee is thin and he can feel the press of each of her fingers against his ribs.  

If she wants his attention, she certainly has it, but all she says is, “Thanks.”  She throws him a smile before catching up with Josephine, who has come back to retrieve them, and Cullen follows silently after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... don't even know. This began as a prompt on the day Mr. Nemoy died and suddenly it has a plot and I don't know what I'm doing, except that last chapter was too sad, and this one makes me stupid happy, and beach trip adventures await us.


	5. Destin, Pt 2

* * *

She wakes the next morning to find the house empty.  There’s a note from Josie in the kitchen, saying that she and Henry are out working.  “Dumdum,” and that makes her smile because no one but her calls him Dumdum, “is being boarded so you and Cullen don’t have to worry about looking out for him.  He can be a handful when his people aren't around.”  At the bottom of the note is a Wifi password and thirty dollars of cash folded, “for lunch.”  The password is enough to make her happy, but the money makes her sway with some extra bounce, not in and of itself but because Josie is Josie and she can’t imagine family without her.

It’s still early for the time zone, but she’s slept in late for her usual.  Cullen is still sleeping as far as she knows, so she makes some coffee, eats a banana to tide her over and waits.  She has to remind herself that there’s no hurry.  There’s nothing to study.  She doesn’t have _somewhere_ to be.  She looks at the tablet on the counter and then bypasses it for the small breakfast nook between the kitchen and living room.

It looks out over Choctawhatchee, where she can see that the causeway is particularly busy this morning.  Amid the smaller skids and the retirees’ sailboats, a large ferry is hauling freight inland.  Henry and Josie’s house isn’t large, nothing like the houses on the Gulf side of the strip, but it has a spectacular view that makes sitting in a car for fifteen hours worth it.  Not that the trip was unpleasant, by any means.

She had been sillier yesterday than in months.  Without having to worry about clinicals or residencies or medicine, it was nice just focusing on how many times she could laugh and eat sweets.  She takes another sip of coffee, remembering yesterday how even Cullen had eaten three of the cakes.  He had laughed and teased her as easily if they had been friends for years, instead of months.  And then the singing- God in heaven, he and Cassandra had both been holding out on her if they had known he could sing like that.

She grins at the happy memories, teasing out the details for posterity.  His frowning at pop music, rolling his eyes at her demands of the sugar count, gently pointing out and half-smiling for her to pull back into her lane.  Even as a police officer, he had never criticized her driving technique.  And then south of Atlanta in the late afternoon, they had spoken less, enjoyed the silence more.  Golden sunshine had reflected off of every available surface of the car, bouncing to fill it with warmth and light.  His eyes had been hidden beneath his sunglasses, but he had been smiling.

She could have taken all of the smiles from the whole time they’d known each other and they still would not have matched the number of times he had yesterday.  And none of them awkward or self-deprecating, but easy and light, like he’d been at his best for one thousand miles.  Something in her chest shifts to the right at the thought of the man sleeping down the hall, and by the time she’s given it a name the ferry is long out of sight.

* * *

 

The room is still dark, but he can tell by the heavy feeling in his limbs that it’s late. The rotating fan is blowing the thick curtains back like a recurring breath.  Sunlight catches his face in the same waving motion, and he breathes deeply.  The whole world feels soft, _good_.

It’s the first time in ages that he’s slept through the night without nightmares or flashbulb memories to terrify him.  The clock ahead of him says he’s only managed six hours of sleep, but it feels closer to twelve.  Henry and Josie had kept Regina and him awake until she was dozing on the couch.  Half-asleep and half-buried under dog, she had fully protested when Josie pushed her towards her room, muttering something about not being that tired, and she could keep up with the rest of them.

Cullen, already used to long shifts, had waited until his beer had disappeared before calling it a night.  By that time it had been nearly midnight, but Henry was content to sit with him in silence.  It was one of many proofs that the Trevelyan-Montilyet clan were turning out to be some of the nicest people he had ever met.

“There’s a fan in your room if you need some white noise,” Josephine had announced at her return from tucking Regina away.  She had not sat, but tucked her hands in front of her, eyes far away as she mentally ticked through a list.  “We have some extra toiletries in the bathroom if you’ve forgotten anything- a toothbrush, perhaps?  There is also food in the refrigerator if you need anything.  More beer, cheeses, some strawberries.  I’ll dice that cantaloupe before I go to bed.  If you need anything, _please_ , let us know.  Oh, and there are two pillows on your bed, but we’ll definitely procure more if you prefer?”

“Two is plenty, thank you,” he had said nervously, feeling warmed and slightly overwhelmed by their incredible hospitality.  He had been unsure of whether he should play good guest or invest in her willingness to do more.  Josephine, seeming to sense his struggle, had nodded and took a seat next to Henry who had regarded her with a muted adoration.  He had caught Cullen’s eye and his face smoothed out, but Josephine had tucked herself to his side without hesitation and Cullen had suddenly remembered Regina’s words from months ago:

“ _He and his partner Josephine are living quite happily in Florida…_ ”  It was plain here in the late hour, in a house that smelled faintly like dog, that she had not been romanticizing her words.

So he had left them with it to retire to his room.  Catty-cornered from Regina’s, there was a double-sized bed as well as the aforementioned pillows and fan, which he had immediately turned on to drown out the sounds of soft conversation in the kitchen and living room.  It had remained on all night, lulling him to sleep and, apparently, helping keep him there.

The fifteen-hour drive has probably contributed to being so tired.  He is not used to sitting for so many hours on end, and he knows that neither is Regina.  She is probably already up and about, used to her schedule as she is.  He yawns, wondering if he can get another hour of sleep, but the longer he thinks about it the more awake he feels.  Besides, there is probably no recreating the peace he experienced last night.

Except, he feels good about today.  He feels good about everything right now, and he wonders how things would be different if he had stayed in Washington over the break.  If he had not reached for a break at all.   Would he be covering a shift for someone else, sitting in his cruiser listening to the squad radio while waiting for someone to blow off a finger while playing with fireworks?  Sitting in his quiet apartment, too quiet without his downstairs neighbor coming and going at different hours of the day?  And Cassandra coming over at some point to drag him out of the house for a trip to the bookstore or a burger run to Thunder’s? 

Captain Vallen had been more than happy to approve his leave, and it is only now that he can ease into her sentiment.  Somewhere in this house is the young woman who has made it happen, who had pushed so gently that it was barely a push at all, for him to do what was best for him.  He rubs his face into his pillow and smiles, thinking that today is going to be a good day.

* * *

 

She is finishing pouring her second pot of coffee when Cullen rounds into the small kitchen.  His face appears through the neck hole of the shirt he’s pulling over his head, loosening curls and sleep out of his eyes.  He barely looks awake, and she’s grinning as he stops in the middle of the open space.  It looks as though has made a plan and forgotten it.

“Good morning.  Sleep well?” she asks before blowing on her hot beverage.

“Very well,” he rumbles, scratching at his stomach, and she believes him.  It’s the least alert she’s ever seen him, the most relaxed.  Given that it’s a new sleeping environment, and that he does not know either of their hosts very well, she feels like she’s won something to see him so at ease.  She would throw up her hands in victory if she were not holding the hot mug.

Instead she just grins behind her cup while he continues to look around, as if he can’t quite find his thoughts, and finally she asks, “Want some juice?"

“Juice would be good…”  With his sleepy mind momentarily anchored, he runs a hand over the back of his neck and asks, “What’s the plan for today?”

“No plan,” she answers, rifling through the fridge.  “There are a few things we can do, but I figured I’d leave it up to you.  This is your trip, after all.”  There’s a ton of fruit on one of the lower shelves.  There’s a ton of food, period, because Josie is nothing if not a proper host and it takes a minute to find juice at the back.  Of course there are three; orange, cranberry, something green.  

She’s angling her arm into the tall appliance when Cullen corrects, “I thought it was _our_ trip?” and he’s standing just behind her.  She glances back sharply, surprised at how close he is, and he smiles at her before his arm snakes over her shoulder.  She watches his fingers close easily over the top of the bottle that’s just a little bit out of her reach, and he asks, “This one?”

“Yep,” she says quickly, then stands very still as he pulls away.  She stands a bit longer, reaching for the half and half to buy herself a moment of cover.  When she turns around, she’s fine.  Everything’s fine.

“So...  _our_ trip- what do you want to do today?” he recalls before taking a sip of the green stuff.  He’s back to incredibly healthy already.

“Beach?” she volunteers, topping her coffee with a dribble of milk.  “I know you said go-karting, but I don’t think the places open until later in the afternoon.”

He shrugs, more awake with every sip of whatever he’s drinking, “Beach sounds good.  Do you want breakfast first?”

“Ha!  How do you know I haven’t already eaten, sleepyhead?”  He makes a disbelieving face at her, and then shakes his head when she doesn’t relent.

“ _Have_ you eaten breakfast already?” he plays along.

She sighs, “All right, not really. I was waiting for you.  Fine.  But I have eaten a little bit, so if you want breakfast, we can eat here or we can take some snacks to go and eat by the water.  Might attract some birds, but…”

“Birds aren’t too bad,” he says and takes the final swallow of the juice.  It sounds like snacks it is.

“I dunno, Gulf of Mexico gulls can be pretty vicious,” she informs while he begins rinsing his glass out in the sink.  Josie would approve.  “They could be the descendants of those birds in the Hitchcock movie.”  She’s laughing at her own joke before Cullen leisurely turns and takes the two short steps to stand in front of her.  The laughter stops.  His hand, so much larger than hers, closes around the bottom of her mug and sets it on the counter next to them.  She’s about to ask what’s going on when he leans forward and carefully sheaths his arms around her shoulders.  The world is quickly very still and quiet.

It’s dark, and warm, and so comfortable… Regina leans into the embrace with only slight hesitation, arms around his waist, pulling him just a bit closer.

It’s not the first time Cullen has hugged her, or she him, but it’s the first time it’s been easy.  It’s the first time they haven’t been wrapped up in tears or frustration or angst.  It just… _is_.

“What’s this for?” is her soft question, lips brushing the shoulder of his shirt.  Not that she minds at all.  She likes to hear him think things through.  He smells good, too.  Clean and sleepy and _Cullen_ , and if they don’t make it to the beach, if they just stay here like this…

“Just, thank you,” he responds, a perfect match to her volume and tone.  “Thank you.”  The words blow warmth over her ear and she squeezes him a little bit tighter before she pulls away.

She nods firmly, “You’re welcome.”  Today is going to be a good day.

* * *

 

“Oh wow,” he says once he kills the engine.  Regina grins at him from behind sunglasses, already throwing off her seatbelt. “It looks fantastic.”  The water is dark enough to look black far from the shore, but at the sand's edge there is a thick band of teal that is full of children and adults.  Even this many yards away he can hear happy shouting.

She steps onto the sun-beaten lot with thick sandals.  The ground is hot, and the air is hot, he realizes quickly, following her to the back of the jeep where all of their supplies are stored.  In a few minutes he’s going to be sweating.

An hour after his thank you-hug they’ve managed to raid Josie and Henry’s dusty beach equipment, brushing off the spiders and lizards without incident, and loaded up to meet the water.  Two folding chairs, an umbrella, a cooler full of snacks, and a bag full of towels later, they arrive at the brilliant white sands and blue water of the Gulf.

“Well, the sleep was worth it, but we probably missed any decent beach spots,” she says in the first defeated tone he’s heard from her.  She’s still half-smiling, though, so he halls the umbrella over his shoulder and the folded chairs under one arm and marches forward, leaving her to follow after.

“Courage, Reggie.  Don’t give up yet.  Let’s see what there is.”

She salutes as best she can with a cooler weighing her down.  It takes a few minutes, but she might be right about the bad timing.  Still, he can’t find it in himself to feel too guilty.  It isn’t like either of them slept horribly late.  They are simply outmatched by the pasty, three-children families who have probably been awake since dawn.

Still, after walking a quarter mile from the lot, they manage to find a place that isn’t overly crowded.  Here, the only screams are those of birds, punctuating the ever-steady roll of waves.

Regina drops the cooler heavily and shakes her arm out while Cullen sets up the umbrella and chairs.  She sighs and faces the water, hands on her hips.  The strong wind blowing off the water catches her hair and billows her open-backed shirt into a balloon, but she is still and steady.  She looks as peaceful as he feels.  He refrains for asking for help with the small amount of setup and leaves her to enjoy the moment.  It is their trip, after all, if they haven’t established that already, and if he has to remind her that it’s not all about him, he’ll just look forward to acting out the proof.

When she rejoins the present, he’s already seated beneath the umbrella, two towels spread on the sandy shore and she looks momentarily embarrassed, “Sorry!”

“Don’t be,” he says, all ease, digging his toes into the sand with a grin.

“I- I think time got away from me for a second.”

“Isn’t that what we’re here for?” he soothes, leaning back into the chair.

“Yeah, I just… You don’t have to do everything,” she grouses, trudging up through dry sand.  He does not argue the point because until now he’s done very little and she’ll remember that if she lets herself.  

When she drops next to the bag and begins digging through it she says, “Should we do sunscreen before we forget.”  The doctor in her changes the question to a statement, and Cullen laughs.  She tosses him the liquid bottle while stepping out into the sun with a misting applicator.  Though he would only admit it under pain of death, Cullen has to avert his eyes.  She’s almost as pale as the sand she is standing on, and the summer sun is decidedly harsh in its glare.  The absurdity of the realization makes him choke on a laugh.

“Oh, is this spray bothering you?” she asks, ignorant of his thoughts.

“No, I think it’s some sand,” he covers.

A few moments later when the sizzle of her down-wind spraying has stopped, he hears her call, “Do you need me to get your back?”  Her words are almost too flat, tone slightly off off, but when he glances up at her, her back is turned and he cannot read her expression.  It’s... very unlike her.

“Sure,” he answers, already done with his legs and arms.  There is another quick sizzle from her bottle and then her shadow cuts into the umbrella’s as she moves closer.

“Shirt?” she asks, giving him a gentle poke in the shoulder.  He hides a smile as he passes her the lotion.  “Oh, right.  Yes.  Sorry, I just… uh…”  Slippery fingers nearly lose her grip on it.  “Sorry,” she says again softly.  The up and down of her voice is uncharacteristic, but not alarming.  

“You OK?” he asks, glancing back at her.  With the sunglasses pushed onto her crown, her face is exposed, but her emotions are guarded.  At least, he feels like most of the time she’s easy enough to read.  Her hands are covered in white lotion, but they are hovering over his back.

“Yeah…” she answers calmly.  Then her hands pressed down onto his shoulder blades, renewing her reticence.  She sweeps across the skin in sure, swift motions.  Cullen turns away and closes his eyes, dropping his head. He’s still silent while Regina works, covering his back and his neck, fingertips running into his hairline.  Her confidence is renewed in the clinical motions she employs.  When she’s finished she says, too loudly, “All done!” 

“Thanks.” He turns, but before he can offer, she is already pulling her shirt off.  Her short hair ruffles up and the scoop-back of her bathing suit exposes most of her pale back.  She is an unmarked canvas, clean and impressionable.  He rises from the chair because despite sitting or standing, some part of her is out of reach.  Even from this angle he notes that the hold she has on her shirt tightens.

Cullen masks his hesitation by pouring a large dollop of the sunscreen into his hands.  Regina drops her head at the sound, and he uses his free hand to smooth down her hair that is sticking up.

“Just a little Alfalfa,” he explains and then gently drops his hands to her shoulders.  She nods silently, turning her head depending on where his hands roam, and is absolutely silent.  This is too quiet for her, especially after muttering and fidgeting as she has been.  Cullen hides a smile and guides his hand over her shoulder blade.

He’s pretty sure he knows what’s happening here, but he’s not going to tease her.  It wouldn’t feel right when her heart is so large.  What’s more, he doesn’t even want to throw even an inkling of discouragement at her.

They’ve been friends for months now, but with every increased interaction there has always been something else fluttering its presence at the edges- hugs, laughter, tears, it’s showing itself more and more.  No matter the situation there is something gold and shining and waiting for him to reach out and take it.  He’s not sure if he’s ready to hold it, yet, but he knows he doesn’t want to push it away.

So he’s silent, smoothing the white cream over her almost-as-pale skin.  Gently beneath the shoulder straps of her swim outfit, and then back as he’s nearly finished, into her hairline a little more roughly- just the reminder that she did the same for him.  She laughs, shaking her hair back into place.

“This is the part where I usually test out the sunscreen… What do you want to do?”

“A walk sounds good.  Can I bring food at the same time?”

She says only, “Free country,” something in her made timorous by their most recent interaction.  Her skin is glowing under the influence of oily cream, but this time the glare does not detract from the fact that he sees she can only give him a half-smile.

Still, they walk, abandoning their gear to Southern hospitality and Rules of the Beach while their feet carry them toward Jacksonville.  It’s hot, and he’s sweating before they are fifty feet from the shade of the umbrella.  Only the constant wind off of the water offers any reprieve, but Regina, pale as she is, does not seem bothered by the temperature.

He needs to take his mind off of it, needs to free her mind from whatever discomfort has grabbed it, so he says, “So…”  She glances over at him as their feet trail into the water.  It’s already a little warm, early as the summer is, so he takes a few steps deeper, water up to his calves.  Regina only allows it to her ankles, but even so they are close enough that he does not have to shout.

“Yes?” she asks into the silence.

“I haven’t told Cassandra yet, but I’ve signed up to take the next round of Sergeants’ testing.”

“Cullen!” she says, grasping his arm as they walk.  Her excitement is immediate, a clear departure from before, palpable and infectious.  “That’s so fantastic!  What does this mean?” He grins even as she lets go of his arm, absolutely happy for him, and he feels a measure of pride in the decision as well.  It had not been made lightly.

“Well, a lot of studying, for one… I guess I’ll be walking in your shoes for a little bit.”

“Ha!  Oh, how the tables will turn!” she crows, and he smirks at her.

“I was approved after my first three counseling sessions.”

Her smile dims and she glances away.  Her hand releases his arm as she tucks her hands into her pockets.  Their pace does not fail, but it falters for a moment.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, because he is not expecting talk of counseling to bring a lackluster response, not when she has advocated for it so strongly.

“It’s just… are you going to drop counseling once you’ve passed the exam?” 

Cullen smiles briefly at her confidence in him (when, not if), then dips his head, kicking up a splash of water.  It’s not a course he considered, though he understands her concern about it.  Sort of.

He turns to explain, and abruptly bursts into laughter.

“What?” she demands, looking behind her. 

“It’s OK!” he wants to reassure her.

“What’s OK?”

“That face you’re making.  Like you have to be the one to decide whether or not the world is about to end.”

She chuffs a laugh, “I don’t think I’m _that_ dramatic.”

“No,” he assures her.  “But your opinion means a lot to me.  I’m not going to give up counseling.  I actually- uh, that is, I enjoy it.”

“Oh, good.  I’m- shit!”

“Uh…?”

“I think a jellyfish just swam past,” Regina growls, grabbing at him to steady herself while she pulls her leg free from the water.  He glances down and can see that a long, pink welt is already rising on the back of her leg.  “Oh man!” she squeals.  “It burns, but I wasn't sure anything had actually gotten me.”

“You’re not allergic, are you?” he asks quickly, directing them both out of the water.  She hisses at the salt contact, but shakes her head.

“Only to pain,” she groans.  “Ugh, I’m pathetic.  Sorry, I’m so pathetic when this happens.”  She’s not.  Not in the least, but to say so with the emphasis he wants to would sound a little heavy even for him.

“Don’t worry,” he says instead, looking for their umbrella and chairs.  He spots them after a moment, Regina still whimpering next to him.  They are still quite a distance away, even as they begin the trek back, and she’s still clinging to his arm.  It’s not exactly comfortable.

“Do you want me to pee on it?” he asks uncertainly. 

Her head snaps as quickly as an aggrieved Cassandra, but half a second laughter she’s laughing with enough force that she looks like she might fall over, and not for pain.

“Not in a million years!” she brays, holding a hand to her chest with the force of her shaking.  Cullen grins and shrugs, mission accomplished.  Her hold on his arm has loosened.  She’s walking normally, if he can overlook the shaking.  A minute later she’s grimacing again, but it’s broken with snorted giggles.

They take refuge under the umbrella as soon as they arrive and Cullen digs into the cooler for a piece of ice.  Regina uses it to soothe the red line on her leg while he helps himself to another round of foraging.

“Does this mean you’re done with the water?” he asks after swallowing a bite of strawberry.

“Nah, give me a few minutes to grumble, and then we’ll go.”

They go.  Part of Cullen wants to splash like the little kids around him, but Regina is content to stand, waist-deep, without sloshing about.  He doesn’t want to embarrass himself so he maintains a kind of quiet dignity, standing in the sea water and looking out to the horizon.

Even without games and splashing, this is pretty nice.

* * *

 

Regina is glad Cullen seems to be enjoying himself.  She is too, rogue jellyfish and all.  The memory of his offer to pee on her leg still makes her whole body quiver with giggles.  Cassandra would be grunting with disgust, she’s sure.  Either that or commanding that he drop his trousers and do the thing.  Whatever it takes.  Action!  The thought makes her grin.

He’s found an old book in the towel bag and has taken to his chair to read it.  She’s not even sure what it is, but given how quickly the pages are turning, it’s probably beach lit.  Josie’s, maybe?  She’s claimed the towel that should be his as her seat and is burying his feet under sandcastles.  No jellyfish in the sand, and all the crabs here are tiny.  He only looks at her work, raises an eyebrow, and goes back to reading.

“Well,” she says, mock offended by his completely unflustered response.  That’d been minutes ago, and now she is bedding down for a nap.  The sand beneath the towel is already curved to her body, and the air is just shy of too warm.  Her coffee has worn off and she’s ready for some quiet oblivion.  

“Do you want to get some real lunch in a little bit?” she asks quietly.  The thought flits through her mind, that he might want something more than strawberries and cantaloupe.  It’s not snack cakes, but it’s not protein either.  Like cows, or dinosaurs.  Tiny arms.  Wings?  Dinosaur wild wings?

“Are you going to sleep?” he asks, and his voice sounds incredulous as it pierces through her sleepy haze, but she can’t understand why he would be confused.  It’s vacation.  He’s reading.  They’re at the beach and neither of them are in the water.  His feet are covered by architectural magnificence.  Unless he wants to do something else…?

She stirs, answering with a groggy, “Maybe?”  Then she feels a gentle push at her shoulder.

“No,” he laughs.  “Vacation remember?  Rest.”

“Okay,” she agrees and settles back down on her side.  “Cullen?” she calls, voice still soft and sleepy.

“Yes, Reggie?”

She inhales sharply, already feeling herself fade.  “I understand the thank you.”

* * *


	6. Destin, Pt 2.5

Cullen does not read much more of Josephine's bodice-ripper after Regina’s breathing evens out. As thrilling as the book aims to be it’s more titillating than plot-driven, and he closes it three pages into the second chapter with a mental note to make Cassandra aware of its existence. If she doesn’t already know of it.

He drops the book in his lap and instead glances down at his sleeping friend. She’s well and truly out, jaw dropped open and hand tucked beneath her chin. He glances down to the pale legs sticking out from beneath the umbrella shade. After only a moment of thought he rises from his seat. Her preferred spray sunscreen is in the bag near her head, and it feels mostly empty. He smiles with a shake of his head because the liquid bottle was definitely heavier. Still trying to take care of him.

There’s enough to cover the bit of skin exposed to the sun. Sunscreen mists on in a fine layer that highlights the curves in her Achilles tendon and the bottoms of her feet. He looks up when he’s done, but she has not stirred in the slightest.

He finds it amazing that she can sleep in such an open location, make herself vulnerable to the forces around her, much less through a breeze of cold mist on her legs. How she manages is a mystery. He could never do it, would never feel safe enough… The realization causes him to glance to her, as if she might be awake and ready to verify the suspicion. She’s doesn’t budge. Yet he stares at the back of her head, as if willing her to wake and admit it, give his wonder words. Except he encouraged her to rest, and now she _is_.

So he stands and glances around, telling himself he’s doing nothing as silly as keeping guard. In a public space? On the beach in rural Florida? Anyway, keeping guard from whom? The Hoboken tourists with children who are still teething? Cullen grimaces in self-reprobation and releases a deep breath. It’s too easy for a few small thoughts to snowball into one boulder of anxiety, and he has to cut them off before they do so.

Regina’s all right. He’s all right. The trip has been good thus far, relaxed and eye-opening. He’s managing himself well, even with the stress that is always with him. But he can’t get much further into this getaway without thinking about what’s happening in front of him.

He’s caught Regina looking at him. Maybe she thinks herself subtle, but she’s so open with her thoughts and her opinions and feelings, and she stares at him as if she wants to redraw the lines that make him. She touches him without pause or hesitation. Not that she was hesitant at first, but now there is hardly a thought at all.

He’s attracted to her, to her mind and her kindness and her hair and her small chest and her easy smile. He wants to know her better, in a way that doesn’t revolve around their stress and bad days, but he doesn’t know if he’s ready for it. In counseling they had talked about his life goals, and at the time all he could think to say was, “I want to be better,” and not what was to come after ‘better’.

The following two sessions had been unloading everything about the war onto the backs of those who knew its struggle, its weight. It hurt less to think about it after those meetings, but was that enough progress to say he was ready for something- some _one_ , like Regina?

Could he subject her to himself? Could he ask her to be a part of something that might never get better? That might always be not-quite-whole?

He grimaces at the idea, and then relaxes because he can hear her in his ear championing him. She’s in his corner, as steadfast as a bear and as quick as a snake for flitting between his thoughts. She’s in his head already, and if he’s honest, his heart as well.

There is a piece that belongs to her, just as some of it belongs to Mia, and to Cassandra. The question is, can he open up enough to invite her to take more and more of it? She’s yet to see him at his absolute worst, and he doesn’t want that day to come, but he can’t help but think that it may, that it _will_.

What happens on that day? Does she run? Does she abandon the storm in his head for clearer skies?

No, argues the voice in his head that sounds like her. There’s no way. She’ll dig in her claws and hang on, and, God, he wants someone to hang on. No, not _some_ one…

Cullen takes a seat on the other towel next to her and watches her sleep. She’s drooling from the smushed corner of her mouth, but at this moment everything about her is endearing. Her eyes are skittering behind their lids in dreams, completely at peace and he feels a renewed satisfaction in not waking her. Not for a question whose answer is apparent.

He half-smiles as he settles beneath the umbrella to wait.

 

-

 

Regina wakes to the feeling of a drop of sweat dripping down her neck. She wipes it away with a smothered groan and blinks at the sunlight bouncing off of the white sand. Drawing up into a seated position, she glances around. Cullen is in his chair, still reading his book, but the mounds of sand she had scooped onto his feet are gone. Ah well, she could not expect him to be still forever.

“Sleep well?” he asks and she glances up at him with a only a nod for answer. She’s a morning person through and through, but good naps always leave her feeling a little groggy.

“What time is it?” she murmurs, flopping back down to side-lying.

“About three in the afternoon.”

“…What?” she asks, rolling for a better angle to look up at him. He’s still wearing his sunglasses and her eyes are a little squinted, but she can see his smile clear enough, the easy slope of his shoulders. Is he joking?

“You slept for a while… It’s a good thing. Maybe you’ll be less likely to want to throttle a patient’s family member the next time you’re on shift.”

She hums, uncertain as she is about whether any amount of sleep could make that so. When she rolls her head back toward him, he is grinning at her again.

“How’s the book?” she asks, raising a floppy hand toward it.

“Passing the time,” he says with a non-committal shrug. “Ready for go-karting?”

“Oh, yeah, I think so,” she says through a yawn and pulls on his chair to pull herself into a seated position. She runs a hand through her hair. Everything is hot. Getting in a kart and feeling a breeze would probably be really nice right about now. “You’re not going to feel bad about not being at the beach?”

“No,” he answers with a casual shake of his head. When she stands and looks at him to gauge his feeling, he’s still smiling at her, reassuring, and she smiles back reflexively. “It’s a little crowded right now, anyway.” She glances around and there are indeed more people than there were when they first arrived, even more than when she fell asleep. Their space, so open and quiet, has become surrounded on three sides by old people and young families.

Slightly unnerved by the sudden audience, she asks quietly, “I didn’t snore, did I?”

Cullen laughs and she finds herself grinning reflexively, only for him to say, “A little bit,” and she frowns.

“Really?”

“Not so much that anyone noticed. Don’t worry.”

On their way back to the SUV, Regina is staring mostly at her feet as she walks over the sand, and says with some surprise, “Huh. I didn’t get sunburned at all. That’s a first.”

 

-

 

The go-kart track is definitely open. Its posted hours say that it has been since well before they left the house, and Regina tries not to think that they could have tried it before the beach had she been a little more mindful of the planning. It’s nearly as packed as the shore was, screaming children zipping past her with wild shouts of laughter. She grimaces, but Cullen seems to be doing all right. He’s much more perky here than he was at the water. Well, as “perky” as he ever seems.

They have to wait through a line mixed with people who barely reach her hip and long-suffering parents. Regina is more awake now, but that probably is not helping her impatience. Cullen manages to maintain a calm that she envies until finally they reach the small, tacky cars.

“Should we be wearing-” she asks, only for Cullen to pass her a worn out, sticker-covered helmet. The inner lining is also threadbare and ratty. She takes it and tries not to think of microbes. Had it only been last night when she had assured him they would do this? It’s the _one thing_ he’s said he wants to do. He pulls his on and settles it into position, and Regina is a little envious at how _good_ he makes it look. His eyes are serious through the visor, and she tries to rally her enthusiasm.

Cullen wins. Every. Single. Time. He takes turns without skidding his tires and yet his vehicle cuts through corners like physics is bending its rules for him. He pulls ahead and out of sight when she’s still coming through the first big bend of the loopy track and Regina does not hold out hope for trying to catch up.

They’ve made their fourth circuit through when she pulls over and assures him, “Well, at least losing _this_ is not as bad as losing to you in chess… You know, because for this you have practice with your patrol car and your muscle memory and stuff.” It’s a little lame as far as excuses go, but it makes her feel a little better. Then he nods at her silently, the smirk on his lips belying any agreement.

She frowns while he laughs, “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Reggie.” Regina grimaces with some consternation. If that’s the way he wants to play, then…

“Fine. Then I won’t take it easy on you anymore in chess.”

“Oh, you’ve been going easy on me, have you? Well, I would welcome a challenge,” he announces, still laughing.

“Are you always this sassy?” she inquires.

“Only when I’m in a good mood. Want to go another round?”

One more round turns into four before the track operator pulls them both over for hogging it. Except Cullen’s moves have earned him some hero worship, and when they go into the attached arcade, Regina mostly stands back while he shows four eight-year olds how to kick ass at ski ball. She has to admit that she’s impressed, both with his skill and his patience with his followers. She’s never really been the arcade type, anyway, so she’s comfortable with not being embarrassed anymore this evening.

By the time they leave the arcade-track, the sun is setting. Their return to Josie and Henry’s house is uneventful, with only a quick stop to use their lunch money for slush fund, but Regina catches sight of Cullen glancing over at the sunset and so she drives a little slower. In her peripheral vision she sees him glance at her, and she smiles, caught. Maybe she wants to give him some extra time to appreciate twilight, and maybe she just wants to admire how the fading sunlight turns his skin golden.

They arrive back to the house to see a respectably sized plume of white smoke rising from somewhere in the backyard, and Cullen steps out of the car with alarm.

“Is that supposed to be happening?”

“If it’s what I think it is, it’s a very good sign,” Regina responds, climbing down from her seat in a more leisurely fashion. A furious barking at the door of the house reaffirms this in her mind, because Dumdum is home, which means Josie and Henry are home. “I think we’re actually right on time,” she adds, reaching for the beer behind the backseat.

“You’re right on time!” Josie greets them not two minutes later. Dumdum is wired and thoroughly excited by their return. He’s even warming up to Cullen as a member of the pack, a sight that makes Regina grin before she turns and looks for her brother.

“Where’s Henry?”

“Oh, him,” Josie says with a sly smile. “Yes, I probably should check on him. I’ve been instructing him for the past hour and a half in the making of paella.”

“Josie!” she says with a surprised glance to Cullen. He holds her gaze for a moment before shrugging, and Regina grins when she looks back to her sister. “That’s a Montilyet secret!”

“Don’t I know it. I have to make sure he represents it properly. Both of you should accompany me. I want to hear all about your day. Querida, how are you not sunburned?” her sister asks with pleasant surprise in her tone. Regina shrugs, curious about the mystery herself.

“Guess it was the company,” she offers as she follows Josie outside. Cullen follows after them with a small smile, passing each woman a beer as they go. Henry is crouched on the back porch over what looks like a brazier full of rice, mussels, and vegetables.

“Josie, I’m not- Oh hell, there are witnesses.”

 

-

 

Paella for four ends up being enough for twelve people, which means that between grown-man Henry, grown-man Cullen, starving medical student Regina, and done-with-your-stereotypes Josephine, there are leftovers for three. It’s only when Regina and Cullen are cleaning up, because Cullen is still technically too much of a guest but Henry has done all of the cooking and is happy to pass over the chore, that Josephine announces her grand request.

“So, Officer Rutherford,” she says, in such a way that Regina turns her head from the bowl she is scrubbing toward her sister. Her eyes narrow. That tone is familiar and treacherous. Cullen, who is polite and well-mannered and ignorant of Josephine’s tactics looks far too relaxed when he turns to engage her.

“Yes?”

“I’ve heard you have an extraordinary voice. Henry and I know of a karaoke bar-”

“It’s our favorite bar,” Henry interjects from where he is feeding Dumdum, but Josephine rolls on smoothly.

“-with an excellent selection of craft beer. If we could be persuaded to buy the first round, might you condescend to entertain us?”

Regina is shaking her head at Josephine from behind Cullen’s shoulder, her eyes aglow with panic. Josephine makes eye contact and then looks back to Cullen without flinching. The woman is… incorrigible.

“Uh,” Cullen says with only slightly more certainty than Regina feels. “I really only sing hymns and classic rock.”

“Quite a combination,” Josephine says with just enough spark in her voice to be encouraging. Oh hell, if Regina doesn’t know what her sister is doing. No, she won’t push him anymore than she already has. Cullen will walk to the slaughter of his own volition by the time Josie is done with him. Watching this magic on Henry is better than any trip to the theatre, but watching it on Cullen is- wait, has Josephine done this to _her_ before?

“Well,” and he glances back for confirmation from Regina, who tries to grin, but can’t tell exactly what her face is doing at the moment. Cullen smiles at her, though, empathetic and maybe merciful. He’s trying to give her an out.

“Josie,” she says with a sigh, “How many times can you sing _Margaritaville_ before it gets old?”

“Well, you may definitely stay here, chiquita, and watch Netflix to your heart’s content. We’ll take Cullen so he may actually enjoy himself while he’s on holiday,” she says with an easy smile and tone. Regina grimaces at the accusation and Cullen smirks at her until she rolls her eyes. Why does she feel like she’s being handled?

“If you want to?” she offers, and he outright grins. His torso leans forward as if he might hug her and soothe her agitation with the situation, but he stops short.

To Josephine he turns and says, “Sure. Why not? Maybe if they have a good milk stout, I’ll find it in me to sing Ave Maria.” Regina would laugh at his joke, because it’s pretty good, but she has a twisty feeling somewhere between her hiatal valve and duodenum, and Josie is already up and about, anyway.

“Splendid!” says her sister, already running toward her room to change out of smoky clothes. Henry is less concerned and helps himself to another beer while giving the dog a rub down.

“You’ve endured worse than this, you know,” Cullen whispers as she finishes rinsing the dishes. She passes a plate to him as he adds, “Besides, this is family.” It’s important, are the unspoken words. Regina sighs and shoots him a look before bumping her hip into his in acquiescence. Netflix might be better, but she’ll try for his sake.

 

-

 

The front door of the bar sports a low lintel that Josephine and Henry slap on their entrance. It has the same neon signs and over-sized twinkle lights that all bars do. Or, at least all beach bars. At the back is a door to an open deck overlooking the water. It’s ridiculously homey, tucked into a far corner of the local marina, and yet it’s entirely out of place between overpriced restaurants and privately owned boutiques. Cullen likes the idea of it thumbing its nose at the neighbors and so he overlooks the sticky floor and not-great beer selection.

They sit at a four-top table where Henry and Josephine order a series of usuals. Cullen allows his hosts to order for him and Regina orders a daiquiri with an almost rebellious fervor. Come to that, he’s not entirely sure why she hates the idea of karaoke so much.

Josephine only smiles at her, pats the back of her hand and then moves to the stage to grab the catalog of songs available. By the time their drinks arrive, she has picked three songs she wants to sing, and is already laying out the guidelines for proper karaoke success.

“One does not pick a song that one necessarily enjoys, though I think it would perhaps add to one’s overall performance- having a general feeling of enthusiasm, I mean. Maybe. However, one chooses a song that one will both sing well and that others know well enough to enjoy. It’s a combination of well-loved music and energy.” That said, she scoots her chair back. “Henry, don’t drink my beer. Watch me,” she says to Cullen, downing half her brandy in one draw before she stands.

“As per usual,” Henry announces, taking a sip from the beer next to her liquor.

“Of course. Wish me luck!”

“You don’t need luck, babe,” Henry promises before pulling her in for a peck against her lips. Josephine pulls away smiling and prances toward the stage. Cullen’s eyes shift to Regina who is sipping from her strawed styrofoam cup with a small smile. She’s not loving this, but she’s trying.

There is no one in line in front of Josephine, and so when she cues her request, a recording of familiar sounding trumpets fills the space, overlaid with a man’s pronouncements of surprise. The song is recognizable, but not entirely so, and yet both Henry and Regina are already dancing along to it. The motions of their shoulders are remarkably similar.

_Ooh baby, when you talk like that,_

You make a woman go mad.

So be wise, and keep on, reading the signs of my body.

Henry sits up straight and Regina cups her hands around her mouth, shouting, “All right, Josie!”

“The lyrics!” Josie instructs, pointing at the microphone before continuing to croon, “I’m on tonight, you know my hips don’t lie and I’m starting to feel you, boy,” and her hips don’t lie. They sway and pivot, singing as much to Henry as the words of the song. This must be the ‘energy’ part of her performance. Her partner is rocking in his chair side to side, cheering for her.

All of a sudden he yells, “That’s my wifey!” to the half-full bar, and a smattering of applause rises up in response. Even on stage, Josephine grins before blowing a kiss and finishing out the rest of the song. By the time she’s done there is a new thrum of energy in the space that Cullen can’t deny. Well-loved music and energy. She returns to the group as if she hasn’t just performed an open, sensual dance for her partner.

“How exhilarating!” she announces with a prim smile. She takes a sip of her brandy and sinks back into her seat.

Cullen grins as she begins speaking on the finer points of performance, how best to hook an audience and prevent them from falling into boredom. She’s articulating with her hands when Regina reaches over and places her fingers on his wrist. Josephine continues speaking even as he glances over to her. Her eyes are a little too bright, but apparently Josephine’s words have convinced her.

She nods, mostly to herself, and says, “I can do this… I think I’m going to do this.” She releases a deep breath that smells like strawberries and rum, and nods again solemnly

“Reggie, you don’t have to,” Henry inserts suddenly, a hand on her shoulder. The motion is fast enough that Cullen is surprised. They haven’t done much but rib each other, but Henry’s face is sincere. She shakes her head, and he notices that her sixteen ounce drink is half gone.

“No, I don’t want to be a spoilsport,” she says with determination, and she rolls her shoulders like she’s preparing to throw a punch. “Okay. I got this.” Her hand fists with certainty. “I know the perfect song.”

Josephine is grinning, clapping her hands with satisfaction, and even Cullen cannot help but smile at her enthusiasm. It might be liquid courage, but there’s nothing wrong with trying, right? Besides, it’s not like Regina has anything to prove. This is no great hurdle for her. Only Henry looks less than certain with the direction of her decision, and he takes a long draw off of his beer as his sister approaches the stage.

She cues her selection and takes a stand behind the microphone, clearing her throat. Soft, plucky guitar strains ease into the room and Cullen senses more than he sees a few heads around them turn in her direction, perhaps hoping for a repeat performance like Josephine’s. Regina looks nervous but she smiles at him and he throws a thumbs up at her. It bolsters her expression, and then she takes a deep breath.

_One, two, three, four_

Tell me that you love me more.

She sways back and forth, almost bouncing in time to the music.

_Sleepless, long nights_

That is what my youth was for.

Henry sighs and finishes his beer before turning in his seat to plaster on a smile for his sister. Both of his thumbs curl up to continue to encourage her. Josephine glances at Cullen with wide, too-bright eyes as she rests a hand on the table. Cullen feels his own smile slipping as the song gets naturally louder, and he realizes exactly why Regina did not want an evening of karaoke.

She manages to miss the beginning of every note that comes her way. Her timing is all wrong, her pitch is completely off, he’s not even certain what key she’s mean to be in, and she’s smiling at him. He glances briefly to her cup, wondering if he misjudged it as only half-full. Did she drink the whole thing? What on earth inspired her to get on that stage?

_I think I can do this. No, I don’t want to be a spoilsport._

He feels a sharp pinch on the back of his hand, and looks down to see Josephine’s fingers pulling his skin into an almost bloodless grip. But she’s not looking at him at all. Her face is still turned on Regina, who looks like she’s faltering. The rest of the bar is congenially quiet, none of the cheers that Josephine got, and Regina is far from stupid. Her face is red like a sunburn but she keeps pushing through.

“Oh-oh-oh, you’re changing your heart. Oh-oh-oh, you know who you are!”

He can’t even concentrate on the lyrics for the effort it takes him to suddenly keep a smile on his face. This may be the most embarrassing thing he’s ever had to witness, including the time he walked in on Bull in the locker room airing his junk after a shower. Regina is absolutely killing it, and not in a good way. Then her voice begins to shake from unsteady nerves and he remembers a hand at his neck, arms around his shoulders.

_I’m not leaving you. I already told you. You can heal from this._

He feels a new level of embarrassment, but mostly in himself. If he were up on stage, shaking like a leaf, she would be the first person encouraging him.

“All right, Reggie!” he shouts, jumping to his feet. His hands beat against each other in a quick rhythm of praise, and Josephine follows suit, suddenly inspired. Or maybe she only needed a small push for her courage, too.

“Esa es mi hermanita!” she shouts, clapping wildly.

The change in Reggie is immediate. She’s begins to laugh, despoiling the lyrics even further. Only now they start to sound better because her energy and enthusiasm are returning. As the horns crescendo, he wonders why he hesitated at all, why he was embarrassed. So she can’t sing. It’s not a character flaw. Cullen feels a tug at his heart as she grins at him, putting the final nail in the song with gusto. She returns to their table with high color in her cheeks, completely sober after the bracing experience.

“What did you think?” she asks as she sits down, sipping at her daiquiri and watching him with wide eyes.

“Don’t do that to the man,” Henry interjects, side-eyeing her. “It would be cruel and unusual punishment, even for you.”

“Do shut up, Henry,” Regina gushes without looking at her brother. Henry only shrugs with an ‘I tried’ look across the table at Cullen.

“It was very… sincere,” Cullen answers, and Regina grins around her straw.

“And you’re very sweet. I sing like garbage, and I know it, but maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to laugh about it.” She smiles with the smallest trace of leftover embarrassment before turning her gaze back to the table, and Cullen feels a mischievous smile tug at his lips. “Anyway, I’ve filled my karaoke quota for about the next thousand years.”

“Oh, have you?” he asks in a low voice, freeing himself from the table. He pulls the catalog under his arm and asks, “Can you sing harmony?”

“Uh, you know I can’t,” she says with a pointed stare. He returns the stare measure for measure, already backing away. Josephine and Henry are watching the exchange.

“Unlike you,” he chastises, “I was paying attention to Ms. Montilyet’s explanation of how to win over the crowd, but I’ll need your help to do it.” He taps the edge of the catalog against the table, but Regina is frowning.

“What, my inimitable performance wasn’t punishment enough? You want more embarrassment?”

Cullen laughs, blushing himself with the memory of his faltering smile, and shakes his head, “You won’t embarrass anyone- not me or yourself.”

It’s how he finds himself standing on the stage with her, leaning into her space when she tries to curl in on herself away from the audience. He’s faced greater crowds than this in community choir, and scarier faces in combat, but he knows it’s different when there’s no confidence in yourself.

“All you have to do is sing ‘la da da da’,” he assures her and does not bother to tell her that he’s changed the key. With her ability, it’s not going to matter. To her credit, she only nods, keeping her eyes fixed on the screen.

It starts off with plucky guitar strings, faster than in the song Regina picked. Even before the lyrics there is a cheer of recognition from the back of the bar that startles her into looking away from the screen, and Cullen grins.

_When I wake up_

The words snap out of his mouth as he turns to her, drawing his face into an earnest and sincere expression. It’s mostly theatrical, but he feels relaxed as she laughs in recognition. He can see in her shoulders that she’s still nervous, but she starts to bounce with the rhythm of the song and he nods while he continues to sing.

_Well I know I’m gonna be_

I’m gonna be the man who wakes up next to you.

He turns away to face the rest of the audience and continues through the words. Josephine and Henry are already stomping their feet in time with the music, and he sings out

_When I go out_

Yeah I know I’m gonna be

I’m gonna be the man who goes along with you.

The snare drops in and he’s surprised to hear a sudden clapping surge around the bar. More people have come in during Regina’s performance, who he hasn’t even noticed, and still more are coming in now, already shouting with enthusiasm to say they’ve been drinking.

_If I get drunk_

“I’m getting drunk, bitch!” an anonymous soul yells and laughter erupts from next to him as Regina’s nervousness finally breaks.

_Well I know I’m gonna be_

I’m gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you.

The song continues as Regina starts marching next to him to the tempo of the song. Neither of them are even close to drunk, but he feels a rush of ease and happiness he hasn’t in a long, long time.

_When I come home, oh I know I’m gonna be the man who comes back home to you._

They crescendo at the second chorus as he shouts out, “La da da da!” and Regina, who has not sung a note yet, or rather, tried to sing a note of this song, suddenly opens her mouth, contrasting with his voice.

“La da da da!” she shouts, missing every punk note even as they wring out of her throat with a challenge, only he can barely hear the words because the rest of the bar is singing along with the song. Their volume is startling, and both he and Regina jerk back. She’s grinning, and he feels laughter rising up into his throat.

Cullen thinks there’s nothing like a one-hit wonder that everyone knows, but no one thinks about until it starts playing. Everyone in the bar is in agreement, he can tell, because the floor beneath his feet is shaking with the power of dozens of feet stomping in unison.

The song ends with the same amount of energy as the crescendo, and everyone in the bar begins cheering for themselves. Cullen can’t even hear his own voice through the monitor. Well-loved music and energy, Josephine had said, and Cullen believes it. He returns the mic to its chassis before the guitar completely fades, high on the energy of success and enjoyment and turns to Regina with open arms. She’s already there, throwing herself at him in a hug that he meets with equal enthusiasm, sweaty and voice stretched and bursting with energy.

“You did great!” he announces and she shakes her head, too chagrined from her solo to give herself much credit. It’s true, though. Maybe she didn’t carry the song, but her energy and effort in holding the crowd together matched his step for step, or rather, stomp for stomp.

“That was so awesome!” she says around a grin as they step off of the stage together back toward their table.

“That was badass,” Henry cheers, pushing a beer in Cullen’s direction. He chuckles and claims the mug while Josephine nods.

“Perhaps not the best song to properly appreciate one’s extraordinary vocal talents, but a brilliant performance nonetheless.”

“Thank you,” he says, feeling a little embarrassed at the praise.

Henry passes Regina a bottle of water that she opens without complaint or commentary. Someone else is taking the stage, and the energy they have invested in the crowd suddenly feels more smothering than helpful. Cullen takes a slow breath and says, “I’m going to step outside for a minute and get some air.” His hosts nod and then turn away to watch the next performer, chatting to each other about one hit wonders and other societal tropes about karaoke.

Regina, though, is watching him and mouths over the familiar flute introduction of _Margaritaville_ , “Do you want some company?”

“Yeah,” he says and picks up his beer. They head for the back deck, receiving slaps on the back as they pass. Regina yelps at one point and draws closer to him, staring over her shoulder. He glances back, but the press of bodies around them hides the perpetrator. He feels a rush of irritation and what might have caused such a reaction, but she only pushes him towards the door.

Outside the air is diffuse with the smell of sea life and cigarette smoke, but for the moment it’s better than the stuffy air of the small venue. Josephine and Henry might know fun, hole in the wall places, but stale, humid air is part of the package. The deck is at least breezy. It’s still full of people, but it’s not so loud or bright. There is only so much karaoke he can take, the noise and the shouting and the light… Even if it does make his new friends laugh and cheer as much as they have… Even if makes older friends look at him like he’s holding the stars in place.

He stands next to the railing while Regina hops up to make it her seat. He doesn’t blame her at all, if someone was molesting her on their way out the door, and the combination of vulnerability and her position makes him slide just a bit closer to guard her.

“So, have you had a good time thus far?” She asks calmly, lips stained bright red from her drink.

“I have. It’s more peaceful here than I was expecting. Well, maybe not _here_ here, but at the beach… This city… Henry and Josephine are pretty incredible.”

“Good,” she says, fingers wrangling against each other in her lap. “I’m glad you like them. They’re generally pretty easygoing, but they can come across as intense. Together they’re kind of a hurricane.”

“Ha, I can see that. From Josephine definitely.” She throws a smirk at him that is knowing and tolerant in the way only a sister can be.

“Henry’s just as bad, and he encourages her, so…”

They fall back into silence with the lull of the lapping water. Each push and pull beneath their feet is gentler here than at the Gulf proper. It’s a sigh instead of a roar, though still soothing… almost as pleasant as the rest of the trip has been. Cullen can almost trick himself into thinking he’s happy. It certainly feels that way. Yet he knows he risks over thinking it and tripping himself on unpleasant memories that don’t reside in the here and now, so he settles for concentrating on the warm knot in his chest, the one that always feels a little warmer when Regina is there smiling at him.

“How about you?” He asks, curious and hopeful. She’s put so much effort into this weekend, making sure his needs are met, making sure he’s given the opportunity to do the things he _wants_ to do, that he can only hope she feels it’s been worth it. Maybe she’ll even forgive him one day for pushing her into a second round of karaoke.

“Yes,” she says firmly. Then with some hesitation, “For the most part.” The words look like they cost her something to admit, which is not surprising, given how much she has tried for success the past few days. Still, they give him slight concern.

“But not entirely?” he teases, trying to hide his alarm. “Don’t tell me I spoiled your fun on the track?”

“No,” she assures him with a grin. “That was too much fun. Even karaoke… God, I’ve never had an experience like that,” and she laughs, light and quick, but she’s still staring at her hands, still knitting her fingers. “It’s just… Uh…” Regina looks up, back toward the inside of the bar. Her body is tense, and she has to force a slow exhale through her nose.

“Reggie?” he prompts, his concern rising.

“Cullen.” The word is firm from her mouth, and her tone does nothing to quell the sudden turn of his stomach. Even at her most annoyed, her most forthright, she has never turned that tone on him. “What would you say if I- uh… If I said… Hrm…” She laughs again, choppy and fast, “Oh this is hard.” She still won’t look at him.

It’s an ominous pause, but he waits, even as his anxiety grows, trying to give her the chance to find the words. He knows she would not hesitate unless it were important, and he’s learned from her to be patient in matters like this, the way she has for him. It doesn’t stop a sinking feeling that disappointment is about to hit him hard. Her fingers clench tightly in her lap and she takes a swift, shaky breath.

“May I kiss you?” she requests quietly. Only when the words are out does she look at him. “That’s the question. What would you say if I asked that? Hypothetically, of course.” Her eyes are large, and her mouth is pinched.

It…

It is not the question he is expecting. It doesn’t even look like the question _she's_ expecting, if the startled look on her face is any tell, but she doesn’t take it back. She doesn’t say _anything_ , and Cullen feels a bubble of relief burst in his chest. He already knows his answer.

But relief is quickly replaced by surprise. Whatever his feelings have been, whatever signals he’s been catching, he would not have bet on them coming to this place. Not so quickly or smoothly. Can anything be truly smooth when he and his past are involved? Yet she’s here. She’s asking. But Regina is a blank slate, and he cares about her- enough to wonder at the risk. “Wounded” is the word she had used.

Maybe there is nothing at the end of this path but more heartache and pain. God knows he’s had enough of both for a lifetime.

But, then again, maybe not. Maybe their struggles could be different, and _less_ because they know to try. He already feels lighter with her than he does with anyone, and he’s reminded of who he can be, and not what his past is. She makes him laugh, demands the best of him. He can’t deny an attraction to her, either, free and lovely as she is.

So maybe things won’t work out.

…but he wants them to.

And when he thinks about it, he’s not at all surprised that she would make the first move, gentle as she’s been. Asking. Careful. Giving him time and the power to say yes or-

“You’re very quiet,” she says nervously, her voice thin. In the light from the bar her face has turned pale.

“Yes,” he answers, and her shoulders slump.

“’Yes’, you’re quiet or-”

“ _Yes_ , Reggie,” he says, inching close enough to put a hand on her far knee. It’s swallowed beneath his fingers, cool to the touch.

“Oh,” she says, surprised and wondering and _quiet_ and she looks as though she’s waiting to be wounded, all disbelief and tremulous fingers. And why should she be the one to disbelieve, when he cares about her, about them, as he does…

She reaches for his far hand, and he gives it, twining their fingers together slowly. Hers are soft, the nails short and filed to rounded edges, but they move like they’ve been fit for his. She reaches forward and anchors their tips over his knuckles.

Then her free hand is on his shoulder, and he looks up from her gentle positioning to see her body angled toward him. The outside of her thigh is pressing against his, anchoring her there. It’s all slow, careful, intentional. But he’s smiling, suddenly very happy, and he can feel her smiling, too, as she tilts her head and presses her lips to his.

Her mouth is cool, just a firm press against his own. So he turns his head slightly, shearing their lips and Reggie gains enough confidence to move against him. She kisses like she lives, confident and gentle, and always with concern for him. Her lips nibble at his as sweetly as when she asks about his day. Her fingers dig into his shoulder carefully, her other hand clinging to his palm, the trust and promise that she’s _here_. It’s giving and telling and taking nothing.

But he _wants_ her to take, he wants to give, to show his care and respect and admiration for her. So he leans a little closer, and her grip on his shoulder is suddenly a cuff at his neck, the pads of her fingers curling around his spine. Her breath is warm against his lips and it hitches as he shifts to stand between her knees, running his thumb over the soft skin of her calf.

Regina’s lips are warm and clever soft, and it’s when he realizes that he would be completely fine memorizing their structure and feel for the next several hours that he pulls away. His breath comes deep and measured as he rests his forehead against hers. She squeezes their locked fingers together, pulling at his neck, breathing his breath, and God, he wants to savor this.

“May we just stay here forever?” whispers against his lips, and Cullen laughs suddenly, bright and happy. Her thoughts are even closer than her body. He’s so comfortable that he hooks his chin over her shoulder, hugging her close with his free hand, his mouth wanting to pledge a firm ‘yes’ to her question. Yet old, learned fear is there, grasping at him and reminding him how it keeps him safe. He has to be brave and lean on her strength, clean canvas that she is.

“Probably not,” he says in the end, literal and teasing, and reassuring, “But I’m definitely attached to you.”

When she pulls back, the light from inside is reflected in her pale eyes. They glow as she stares at him, like he is something better than this world, and she is not sure how to proceed. He certainly feels that way.

“Oh,” she says, favoring him with a sweet and tender smile.

No one has ever looked at him this way, and he… God, he wants to live in the trappings of her heart, to find out where the beauty there comes from. He tilts forward and takes her lips again, and it’s just as sweet and light, but with each pass they grow more comfortable with one another. They stay there, at the deck’s edge, oblivious to the other patrons around them, to everything except each other and a moment that is months away from its foundation. In the way the universe sometimes does, no one catcalls or stares too intrusively and they take their time.

By the time a loud, purposeful, “Ahem,” erupts behind them, Cullen feels like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders, and a seed has been planted in his heart. Reggie pulls away first, craning her head around his.

Josephine’s voice says politely, “Very sorry to interrupt, but the bar is getting too crowded for comfort, and we need to get some sleep tonight for preparation tomorrow. Henry’s getting the car. Shall we depart?”

Cullen clears his throat, suddenly embarrassed to look at his host, but Regina calmly unlaces their fingers. Then with steady hands, much steadier than the ones that held a microphone, she cups the sides of his face and kisses him one more time. It’s not so much a tender gesture as an announcement to Josephine. Whether the same will be satisfactory for Henry, he’s not certain. Then she pulls away, slides off of the railing and Cullen has to take the smallest step back to give her space.

She takes his hand again and moves toward Josephine, who is smiling in a very neutral way. He’s not sure if she’s uncomfortable or polite, but it’s a little unnerving.

“Thanks for coming to get us, Josie,” Regina says, still pulling him toward the door of the bar. He slips past her as he falls into step with the woman still holding his hand, and now holding his heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides head under a bucket* 
> 
> The karaoke songs:
> 
> "[Hips Don't Lie](https://youtu.be/DUT5rEU6pqM)" by Shakira  
> "[1234](https://youtu.be/ABYnqp-bxvg)" by Feist  
> "[I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)](https://youtu.be/XZ4Ib-7fJqY)" by The Proclaimers  
> 


	7. Destin, Pt 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience with me in waiting for this chapter :). I thought I would be able to keep up with weekly updates but graduate school finals hit hard and kept hitting. Now I am on second spring break, and hope to have a few more updates before I return to classes.
> 
> This chapter is a bit of necessary interim. I was going to see it through to its completion, but it was already at 4K words, and I thought maybe some of you might read it as is :) <3

She wakes with a smile on her face, pleasant warmth in her chest, hands tucked beneath her pillow. The memory of last night is still fresh, as though only a few minutes have elapsed instead of hours. _Cullen’s fingers twined with her own, his lips warm and wet against hers. He looks at her with a small, reserved smile that expresses his feelings as well as any words, and-_

 

“Gah!” she whispers, twisting her pillow around her head as her feelings threaten to erupt. It feels like a Disney movie, and she holds back a squeal as she rolls over. It’s all new and happy and lush, except… She releases her grip from the pillow, taking note of the faint grey light at the window. Her concern and care for him aren’t new. Her admiration and respect for him are already well-founded. Only now she finds herself wanting to hold his hand, rub her thumb over his wrist, watch the way his eyes curve when he smiles, and it doesn’t feel surprising or odd. She wants to _make_ him smile, and that hardly feels new at all.

 

Regina wants to give more time to these thoughts, and she will, but for now it is officially Independence Day, and Josie will be up soon, if she isn’t already, to prepare food and go through her music list as well as whatever other itinerary she has planned. Regina slips out of bed and runs a hand through her hair in lieu of brushing it while the other hand pulls her skewed pajamas into place.

 

She is still smiling, thinking of coffee and Cullen when she steps into the hallway, pulling her door closed behind her. She has only taken two steps when his door opens and she stills. His bleary eyes fix on her almost immediately and she smiles reflexively. The smile he returns is smaller, half-awake as he is, but she can see it through the fingers that lazily rub sleep from his face.

 

“Good morning,” she whispers quietly, veering toward him without a thought.

 

“Good morning,” he responds and emerges from his dark room into the dim hallway wearing only a pair of long sweatpants. Regina stills as he drops his hand. She is still smiling as his arms loop around her. The sleepy warmth of his body enfolds her and she wraps her arms around him like sinking into a warm bath. In the cool hallway it’s more than comfortable to stand like this for a few moments, to remember who it is she’s holding. He seems to her just as content, and then he speaks.

 

“I’m going back to sleep.” The words are gravelly as he nuzzles the side of her head, and she laughs in surprise. “I just wanted to see you for a minute.”

 

Her laughter falters and Regina’s face contorts involuntarily at the expression of tenderness, the whole gesture, and she hugs him just a bit closer. There are ten things on the tip of her tongue: how sweet he is, how much she appreciates the gesture, non-verbal squealing, but none of them seem appropriate, or at least none of them seem _perfect_. Instead, she nods against his shoulder, saying nothing.

 

“I’m going back to bed,” he rumbles then, and pulls away while Regina smiles at his sleepy features. Her face is starting to hurt from smiling so much. He gives a small wave as he steps away, and the supple movement in the muscles of his back makes her grin. Her face feels hot, but she’s _happy_ , and he’s doing well and they are here together and she turns in a small circle, shimmying in her giddiness.

 

Before his door closes, Cullen’s voice calls quietly into the hallway, “I saw that,” and Regina stills in her small dance. She glances over her shoulder just as his door clicks closed, then she giggles all the way to the kitchen.

 

Josephine is already there, waiting on her with a mug of coffee. Nothing was said in the car ride on the way home, but Regina is certain that she and Henry exchanged news and opinions of her and Cullen’s development. Now, though, her sister smiles, none of the forced lightness from the deck last evening.

 

That should be Regina’s warning.

 

Josie hands over a mug of coffee and asks, “Will you help me dye my hair this morning?”

 

“Sure,” Regina says with some confusion, eying the dark locks on her head. It’s not that the impromptu greeting is out of the ordinary. Josie knows she can ask for help whenever she needs it, and does, it’s just that she has absolutely no need to dye her hair.

 

“We have a few guests coming over,” Josephine explains. There is nothing so forceful as a sigh from her, but Regina knows her well enough that there is something about extra, unexpected guests that rankles. “It’s only a pair of Henry’s friends, and I have a few strands of grey showing in my roots that I would rather not being showing when they arrive.” Regina quirks a brow at the non-existent grey, or at least well-hidden grey.

 

“Who are they?” Regina asks instead, sipping at her coffee. Josephine’s hair could be completely silver and she would be stunning, but unanticipated guests are of legitimate interest. Regina holds onto her happy feelings, smothering a spark of irritation at the intrusion into what was meant to be a private weekend.

 

“Some Navy people,” Josephine replies, “who couldn’t get out of town on shore leave.” Then she turns to Regina with a sudden alarm, “Do you mind?” The question is sincere, too abrupt for anything else, and Regina shakes her head. Next to Josephine’s concern, she feels a little embarrassed at her proprietary reaction.

 

“No, I suppose not,” she says, smiling and shrugging gently to show she means it.

 

Josephine sees through her just the same, and pats her shoulder, “I know. Family time, but you know how Henry is.”

 

“How both of you are,” Regina laughs, but Josephine only smiles primly.

 

In the bathroom Regina thinks of organic chemistry while she mixes the the dye and developer. Josephine pulls a towel around her shoulders and the two indulge in a few minutes of quiet while they apply the dark cream. It’s a drippy mess, and smelly, but it does not take long to set the application. She cleans off Josephine’s neck and the few splatters that have landed around the bathroom.

 

“It never ceases to amaze me what a messy process this is. Even the cream,” she announces, while Josie departs to the kitchen, her hair clipped and locked in place. Regina departs after finishing cleaning to see her setting a timer. She crosses to her coffee, only to see a sticky note pressed next to Josephine’s mug. It was not there when they departed, bright green and conspicuous on the white laminate counter. Regina pulls it free as she sips her coffee and reads over its few lines.

 

Henry has gone to the store for a few last minute groceries. Cullen is with him. Regina frowns as she scans it again to make sure she has understood its meaning.

 

Only thirty minutes ago, Cullen was going back to sleep, and Henry really has no need of his help. The man’s not even from here. How would he know the store’s layout? There is only one reason that she can think that Cullen would be asked to accompany Henry, and it sparks a rush of annoyance that quickly wants to become anger.

 

Everything suddenly feels slightly off, and she lifts the note, asking Josephine, “Is something going on?” Brown eyes turn and catch sight of the green paper, and Josephine does not insult her by feigning confusion or ignorance. She leans against the stove with her own coffee. Even with her hair in clips and smelling like developer, the stance somehow feels like a standoff.

 

“A better question is what’s going on between you and the officer?”

 

“Ah,” Regina chuckles, pressing the sticky paper back to the counter top, “So it’s an intervention.”

 

“Regina,” Josephine answers calmly, her tongue rolling the R. “We’re family. I _must_ ask… Do you know what you’re getting into?”

 

“Uh, nothing?” There is a pause as Josephine’s lips pinch and Regina can see the beginnings of wrinkles that would likely bother her more than her smothered grey hair.

 

“It is most unfortunate,” her sister begins calmly, “that you Americans no longer use the word ‘coy’ as it would be highly appropriate in this situation.”

 

“Josie,” Regina warns, catching her sister’s attention in a concerned glance. She modulates her tone, and says, “If you have something to say, just say it.”

 

“Very well. You and your tenor extraordinaire, who _was_ most extraordinary… last night at the bar? Making out? Do you _know_ what you’re getting yourself into?”

 

“I like him? He likes me?” she offers, but Josephine does not smile.

 

“If half of your accounts are true, he’s in the same situation Henry was.” She pins her under a stare that softens when Regina does not look away. “I won’t insult you by asking whether or not you have given this thorough consideration.”

 

Regina does not share that she has not thought about it as thoroughly as Josephine intimates, or perhaps might wish, only teeters on the edge of sarcasm with a clipped, “Thanks for that.”

 

“I _like_ Cullen,” Josephine insists, seizing on the tension. “I don’t want to see him hurt. I don’t want either of you hurt, but my first duty is to you, querida.” Regina stills, and even her annoyance is momentarily soothed by the admission.

 

“Why,” she must ask, though, “do you feel like Cullen and I are going to hurt each other?”

 

“Reggie, it will not do,” Josephine cautions, as sharply as the finger she waves through the air. “ _That_ is not coy but proper deception. _You_ are the medical student. You know that none among us is truly healthy, but even the more healthy may hurt one another. Cullen cannot even say of himself that he is completely well-adjusted.”

 

“That is not new information,” Regina drawls.

 

“Perhaps you should consider your schedule, then.” At this Regina further hesitates and Josie presses against her stalling, “You worked very hard to get into George Washington University, Miss Three Percent Acceptance Rate. If your grades slip or you suddenly fail out because you’ve found true love, you’ll be back to sleeping in the guest room, and your father will have been proved right.”

 

The warning, the criticism, is sharp, words tumbling over one another in a smooth rhythm that feels like an assault. Regina shakes her head, too many thoughts and feelings roiling in her head in sharp response for her mouth to be trustworthy. She turns and grabs her coffee cup. Josephine has been part of her family for years, and the woman is manipulative and opinionated and kind and protective and loving, and it’s not what Regina wants to consider at all right now.

 

“Thank you for your concern and interest,” she says coolly. “I know it’s well meant, but I have to make my own decision. I don’t want to hear anymore about it from you.” Then there’s Henry. With Cullen, trapped in some podunk grocery store, perhaps hearing the same words. She sets the cup down sharply and turns to Josephine with a glare full of promise, “And if Henry has threatened Cullen, I’ll _skin_ him.”

 

“At least you have conviction,” Josephine remarks calmly.

 

“Nothing else,” Regina chastises, and Josephine inhales before dropping a curtsy in the middle of the kitchen. “I think you can wash that out yourself,” she says quietly with an eye for the dye, and takes her coffee back to her room, closing the door behind her.

 

* * *

 

 

It is almost noon when Cullen and Henry return to the house. Until the front door opens the only noise she hears is Josephine blow drying her hair from her bedroom. Regina’s simmering in silence, thinking over Josephine’s not-inappropriate words and the reality in front of her. For the time being Cullen’s well, and it’s easy to think that things will stay this way, happy and easily trusting one another. But Henry didn’t. There were ups and downs for years after his initial deployment and return.

 

She’s not even entirely sure why Cullen has the disorder. What trauma brought it on? It’s a conversation they have skirted a few times, but not drawn close to.

 

When the door opens, she jumps to her feet, coffee long since cold. They’ve been gone for hours, and she can only imagine the state Cullen will be in when they return. Henry has learned most of his tact from Josephine, but he can abandon it readily enough when he chooses.

 

At the end of the hallway, Cullen and Henry are laughing as they bring in a small mountain of groceries and Regina halts in confusion.

 

“Did you buy the whole store?” Josephine’s laughter carries, and Henry grins, pleased with himself.

 

“Cullen’s never been to a Costco,” he announces. Bounding in behind them is Dumdum, who greets Regina like he’s never seen her before. She’s too busy cutting her eyes between Cullen and Henry, to pay him much notice, but they are both smiling, even weighed down with packages. She drops her hand to the dog’s shaggy head and runs it against his skull, not wondering who is more settled by the action. It’s the motion that finally draws Cullen’s attention to her, and at her worried expression, his smile fades. She tries to smile back, because regardless of what Josephine has said, she doesn’t want to alarm him. They’re here for two more days.

 

He watches her until his task demands his attention and he turns toward the kitchen. It takes more than few minutes to unload everything they’ve bought- more meat, chips and beer and even a few vegetables and fruit; Henry’s idea of ‘last minute’ groceries. When she asks why he bought so much, Henry only explains, “The seals eat a lot.” She frowns at him, wondering how seals are involved, if it’s some Destin thing she doesn’t get. There aren’t any fish in the haul.

 

Henry is not looking the slightest bit guilty. There’s no indication that he’s done anything or said anything to Cullen and Regina feels herself relax slightly. Josephine has yet to speak to her again, at all, and Regina reminds herself that she has done nothing wrong. She has no reason to feel upset with herself.

 

It’s not until Cullen slips his fingers into hers a few minutes later, in sight of Henry and Josie, that she feels herself begin to calm down. Has she judged Josephine too harshly? Is she worried for nothing?

 

“Are you all right?” His question does not soothe her as much as she wishes it might, but when she looks up at him, his face is worried, the same tenderness in him that is becoming familiar, and she shrugs.

 

“I should be. I guess- I’m an idiot. You were both gone for a while. I didn’t expect it to take so long,” is all she admits, modulating her words calmly, hoping she’s not blowing things out of proportion. Cullen smiles and pulls her to him in a hug.

 

“Not an idiot,” he corrects her. “Henry is very susceptible to small, free samples, and frankly, I am, too.” She chuckles, satisfied with the answer, but he doesn’t pull away, and she’s in no rush to flee the comfort of his embrace. His voice drops and he shifts an arm around her shoulders, aware of the easiness of the moment, but asking anyway, “Is this all right?”

 

This hug? It’s more than all right. She likes the feeling of his arms here and his closeness, his quiet strength. She’s not the only one good at helping the other calm down. She nods and wraps her own arms around him.

 

“More than all right,” she answers.

 

“And this?” he tests, kissing her temple. She grins, feeling the rest of her anxiety flutter and steam into happiness even as she nods.

 

“Mhmm.”

 

He finally pulls back, smiling down at her. Their boundaries are still new and comfortable, but she doesn’t mind if he wants to test them a little. He has so much of her trust already that he could push a little further, and she would not reject him. They’re new, whatever they are, but they’ve already built a foundation. This is how she knows that Josephine is wrong. They won’t be hurt.

 

She glances up at movement in her periphery and sees Josephine watching them before she takes Cullen’s hand again. She nods slightly to her, and in a move similar to last night’s, pulls him to the back door. The porch and view of the Bay beckon, and now is as good a time as any to talk. Cullen’s fingers wrap around her own and he follows. They pull up two chairs against the back of the deck to give a good view of the water.

 

It’s warmer outside now than it was last night at the bar. It’s only made warmer when Henry comes outside and ignites the grill. There are two beers clenched in one of his hands and a bag of charcoal in the other. He passes the drinks to Cullen and Regina. She takes the bottle and considers it before setting it on the deck rail.

 

“Is it even one o’clock?” she asks.

 

“Five o’clock somewhere!” he calls over his shoulder before dropping the haul of charcoal, and Regina gives a pained smile to Cullen.

 

“My brother has embraced the redneck way.”

 

“Oh, get off your high horse, Reggie,” Henry snorts then heads back inside without another word.

 

Cullen’s thumb smooths over the back of her hand and he says, “Rednecks aren’t all bad, I’m sure.”

 

“Well, then you can have mine,” she says, trying not to get too far off topic.

 

“No, for all my redneck appreciation, I agree with you that it’s a bit too early.”

 

A few moments pass as the quiet settles over them. Gulls dot the sky in the distance and Regina watches them as she asks, “So… just groceries?”

 

When he glances over to her, he quirks a brow, “Yes. Why?”

 

It’s distantly amusing to her how in situations of concern about his health, she can act without fear or hesitation. When she wants to talk to him about how they relate to one another, if there is going to be something more, her face flushes and she has to trace her steps back to the first point and not trip over her own thoughts.

 

“I didn’t know if maybe Henry had threatened you, or something,” she says with a small laugh. Cullen smiles at her, fingers squeezing those beneath his. She feels emboldened by the gesture, the assurance in it, and suddenly feels that they are brought back to the heart of the matter. “I, uh… really enjoyed last night,” she says, slowly but surely. Time slows and all she can think of is that kiss, all of the kisses- how close they were and the smell of him, the way his fingers felt beneath hers. She cannot quite look at him now. Then his fingers squeeze hers and she clings to her confidence to see him smiling at her. No, not smiling. Smirking. Ha! The emotion behind his gesture encourages her enough to grin at him for a few seconds. His body angles toward her, but he does not draw closer.

 

“So…” he says, “Where does this put us?” he asks carefully. There is a hint of trepidation there, hidden behind a calm smile, and his hesitation pulls at her. She runs her thumb over his index finger and steps out.

 

“I care about you,” she says, turning in her chair as well. She tucks one foot into the seat and bites her bottom lip gently, casting her gaze away for a moment. Every time they circle around these feelings, hers build and build and then she has to pull away. “Uh, a lot.” A wince betrays her, wondering if it’s too much, too soon, but when she looks up at him, his face is… careful, accepting, poised for something better. Her heart beats a little faster. “So I…” She stops, dropping her hold to cover her face with both hands. “Oh, God, I’m getting nervous. I need you to say something.”

 

Before she can withdraw into herself, into her own head as she almost did last night, fingers are at her face, gently pulling her hands away and then Cullen’s hands are holding them gently. He really is strong, decisive, and she wonders at the nature of doubt, to worm its way into her defenses when she is so sure of him in this moment.

 

“You’re wonderful, Regina,” he says, dipping his head gently to encourage her. “And I care for you, too. If- if _you_ want, then _I_ want to see where this goes.” His fingers smooth over her knuckles and she squeezes the hand that is holding hers.

 

“Me, too,” she professes around a grin, reaching over his armrest to wrap her arm around his. He glances down at their linked limbs briefly. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says quickly, pulling away, “I should ask first- is this OK?” His answer is to take her wrist and pull it back into place.

 

“More than OK,” he echoes, causing her to grin again.

 

The warm afternoon settles into something comfortable, worry forgotten for a while. She asks him about the hymns he spoke of yesterday evening, and he asks if she means to try and trap him into singing again. She laughs, reminding him that it was Josephine who trapped him, but she might have benefited from the performance. They speak of their upbringings, what brought him to holy music in the first place, how we was raised in a family of four and all of them attended private Catholic school.

 

“Oh, me too!” she says, with a laugh. “Nothing like corporal punishment, eh?”

 

“I was… I never really got in trouble as a student.”

 

“Really?” she asks, interest piqued. “I think I got swats every other week.”

 

“Really?” he queries, and the few syllables are wrapped with incredulity that make her smirk.

 

Her nose scrunches as she explains, “It was actually a boarding school. I didn’t care for it, and I didn’t really settle down until Henry promised to visit every month.”

 

“And did he?”

 

“Mhmm, without fail. What about you? You’ve mentioned Mia before, but what about the others?” He explains how he had plans for the ministry but Branson was so much more devoted, and their parents only had money to send two children to university. Mia was the brilliant statistician, and Cullen held some promise for seminary, but in the end he had given up the position to the sibling who had wanted it more, who had fit it better.

 

“And do you regret it? For what came after?” she asks quietly, holding his hand firmly, but not too tight. He smiles at her, a half-smile but full of affection as he shakes his head.

 

“Not at all.” Before they can wind down that particular road of his past, he asks, “What about you? Was it that way for you with medical school?” Regina frowns slightly, tilting her head, wondering how to explain this without sounding like an asshole. “I know you’ve talked about student loans before, but Henry’s not…” He trails off and she thinks that maybe there is no way to avoid it.

 

“In all honesty, that’s how it is _now_. My loans are in my name, but… well, you know that I went to boarding school. So did Henry and our other brother Emory. I also had two ponies when I was younger, and my great aunt keeps a yearly social for rubbing shoulders with the Vaels and the Couslands. I think even a few Valmonts attend her soiree… If she still does them.”

 

Cullen frowns, but at least he doesn’t look flabbergasted as he says, “If you’re trying to tell me you have money, I think I get it.”

 

“ _I_ don’t. My parents do. We had a falling out a few years ago.” About Henry, she doesn’t say. “It’s part of the reason Henry lives here, and it’s part of the reason I live where I do….” She squeezes his hand as he asks what happened. She explains how her mother was always agitated- _freaking out_ \- over Henry and his PTS, and how she thought she could tell him to toughen up or just feel happy. “It didn’t work. Our older brother… he’s some stupid vice president of some Fortune 500, ugh. I don’t even want to talk about him. Anyway, we got Henry out- Josie and I did.”

 

They continue to talk, content to hold one another’s hands, as they speak of family and work and university. There are plans they each have, plans they tip toe around because now those plans are tenuous and frayed, perhaps making space for another life in their midst.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like Coming Clean, I recommend going through [some of the drabbles in my receptacle](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3539495). They have a few different situations going on :).


	8. Destin, Pt 3.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up right where we left off in the last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a scene of someone being triggered and what happens after. I don't think it needs a content warning, but I will rely on readers to correct me if that proves otherwise.

“Really? A tithe to the church?” she asks, her curiosity showing a revelry in the novelty of his answer.

 

Cullen chuckles around a nod and explains, “It’s done a lot of good, and it can do more if the resources are there. Besides,” he amends with confidence, “a tenth of a lottery ticket’s winnings are going to be pretty negligible.”

 

Regina’s foot is resting in his lap. There’s a pop rock song playing from inside the house, filling up the space and drifting out to the porch they are occupying. He’s ostensibly checking her leg to make sure the jellyfish sting has completely healed. Except he first requested the inspection some minutes ago, and his fingers have been kneading her foot since the prognosis of ‘you’ll live.’

 

“Agreed,” she says as she wiggles her toes. “I… guess I just hadn’t considered that part of it.”

 

“What, giving to the Church? Or a specific amount? Why not?” The questions are innocent, and he doesn’t mean anything by their quick succession, but when he looks up from her foot, she is staring at him with wide eyes. “Sorry,” he says quickly, heat coloring his face. “That was a little intense. I’m only interested in your opinion.”

 

She shrugs in a manner that reads as slightly defensive, and tries to explain, “I feel like whatever religion there was in my life did more harm than good. I believe in God, believe in His benevolence, but what people do in His name…?” She shakes her head, and he wonders if she has the same too-vivid memories he does, nuns with stern glares and a propensity to beat out of you those things they did not like.

 

“That’s fair, I suppose,” he admits, and she cringes as he hits a particularly tight muscle near her arch. “Oh, sorry,” he offers, loosening his grip. He makes no pretense of grabbing her other foot, and situates both to rest comfortably on his thighs before he continues his work. Regina’s smile at the treatment is better than any noise of satisfaction she makes, though the non-verbals are pretty nice, too.

 

“So,” he prods, “After the high-yield investments and profit-enducing companies-”

 

“Don’t forget the Swiss bank accounts,” she reminds him.

 

“Of course not. Everyone needs Swiss bank accounts. Plural,” he concedes pragmatically. “After all those, what about philanthropies?”

 

“Oh definitely. Médecins Sans Frontières,” and he grins at the admission, completely unsurprised, “and the Fraternal Order of Police.” Factual and prompt, she gives him a grin. His smile fades slightly, becoming something softer, more appreciative.

 

“That’s not even _technically_ a philanthropy,” he corrects her, but he can’t keep a pleased expression from his face. He doesn’t even want to.

 

Regina shrugs, unrepentant, “These are my fantasy lottery winnings, so hush.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he chuckles, sending her into a cascade of grinning laughter before he catches up.

 

They’ve spent most of the midday sitting on the porch, watching the ships traverse the bay, talking and laughing. Cullen can feel a measure of tension between Regina and her would-be sister-in-law, even between Regina and Henry. He speculates it has something to do with her offhand comment about Henry threatening him, but she’s steered away from the story since then, and he can find no tactful way to bridge an understanding of the situation. It’s pleasant enough to sit and talk, but less so than it might be if it did not feel like Josephine and Henry were avoiding the space.

 

It’s upsetting to think that he might be related to any cause of discomfort for the other three, and he’s nearly made up his mind to disregard tact and just ask, when the door to the house opens and Josephine appears with a platter full of raw meat.

 

“Reggie, Henry has requested your assistance inside. Do you mind?” Josephine looks at her only briefly, enough to convey the message before she turns to the grill. Cullen frowns at her in concern, but Regina does nothing except pull her feet from his lap. With nothing more than a reassuring smile, she turns inside. He makes himself turn away from watching her go.

 

Josephine says nothing of the wooden exchange, conveys nothing to Cullen at all, but he rises to help her, anyway. Under his hand the platter is steadied while she begins dropping burgers and hot dogs onto the sizzling rack. During his silence is when he finally feels Josephine begin to relax.

 

“I apologize,” she declares suddenly, “if you’ve been made at all uncomfortable, Cullen.” It’s… not quite an admission, but it’s something. Her eyes are focused on the efficacy of her task and the red and brown meats take on a neat, organized arrangement. “It has been a delicate, family matter to bring a situation to Regina’s attention.”

 

“I admit, you saying so makes me feel a little better,” he shares. Perhaps he’s been over thinking things.

 

Josephine smiles kindly up at him, “I hope that you do not feel as though we are neglecting you by _trying_ to avoid discomfort.”

 

“Not at all,” he assures her, and he means it. This is their house and their family, and he is only a guest in these walls. She closes the lid once the grill is full and then retrieves the platter from him. Yet her feet remain fixed in their place, and Cullen thinks it an interesting sight, seeing her so still.

 

“If you don’t mind,” she says calmly, “I’ll stand and enjoy the sun a few moments.” Cullen’s eyes narrow thoughtfully before turning to the glass doors inside. He can see Regina and Henry in the kitchen, and while neither of them look particularly happy, they don’t look awkward either.

 

“ _Is_ everything all right?” he has to ask.

 

“Oh yes,” she assures him without fail. Then her smile parts for a sigh and she admits, “Regina and Henry haven’t seen each other in a few years, and their communication is not so regular when they are not in the same room. They are both very busy, and the truth is that they are not the same people they were when Regina first lived here.”

 

“She _lived_ here?” he asks, and Josephine opens her eyes from her upright sunbathing to regard him curiously.

 

“Oh yes. She left New York and moved here shortly after Henry and I met. Only until she found her feet, mind you. The fact remains that none of us are the people we were then. It only follows that a rough patch of miscommunication would follow a reunion, don’t you agree?”

 

“Not necessarily,” he says, more out of loyalty to Regina than a deep understanding of their family dynamic. Josephine chuckles mildly, her smile saying that she can see straight through him. It gives him an inkling, and Cullen wonders if it might be better to keep his own counsel. Josephine does not feel the same, however, and begins to pick his brain about his own thoughts on their situation.

 

* * *

 

 

“Vodka, brown sugar, butta,” Regina recites as she lines up all of the ingredients her brother has requested. Only he knows what will come out of the mixture.

 

“Thanks. Can you start cutting the cheese, too?” Henry asks while he moves around the kitchen, belying Josephine’s previous insinuations about his ineptitude. Regina hesitates, waiting for a joke to follow, but he is too absorbed in his own tasks. She searches through the drawers for a proper knife until Henry sets one down next to the cutting board for her.

 

It’s less awkward with something to do, but they’ve still barely spoken to one another today. Concern that he might have said something untoward to Cullen has faded, but she can’t shake a clinging suspicion that he and Josie are planning something, testing waters that she herself has not charted. Even if they are only asking questions, it’s too premature. Low anxiety wants to dwell in her mind, pile up nervousness that she doesn’t want to entertain. She finds herself breaking out of the delicate silence to try and push past it.

 

“Why do we have so much food, anyway?” is her question over the sound of the refrigerator door opening.

 

“Because of the SEALs.”

 

“You said that this morning, but what do seals have to do with anything?”

 

“No, Reggie,” Henry says in such a tone that she stops cutting and looks over her shoulder at him. His hand is lifted for emphasis as he explains, “Navy: sea air land team. _SEALs_.”

 

“Oh my God,” she says, suddenly laughing as she lifts a hand to her forehead. “Josephine said Navy people this morning, and… I’m such an idiot. I thought you meant the _mammal_.” Henry barks a laugh, and just like that the tension is broken. Regina is laughing harder than the misunderstanding is funny, especially for exposing her ignorance but Henry is grinning. He sweeps over to her and presses a kiss against her head while she sets the cheese knife down and wraps an arm around him.

 

“Someone’s been studying too hard,” he says and then flits way to continue the rest of his work. He may be right, it may be that she’s been studying too much, but she thinks it more likely that her concern for whatever has been happening this morning has overshadowed superfluous information.

 

She would bet that most people would think seals and not SEALs.

 

“How many people are actually coming?” she asks once her laughter settles.

 

“Just two. They only have a few days of shore leave and couldn’t get out of town. I asked Cullen this morning at the store if he minded them coming over and he said no, so…”

 

“Oh, thanks for asking _me_ ,” she half-teases. “What would you have said if either of us said we were bothered?”

 

“Eh, probably nagged until you caved.”

 

“Excellent negotiation skills,” Regina drawls. “I’m glad Josephine’s been such a positive influence on you.”

 

“Don’t blame her for my shortcomings,” he says proudly.

 

Regina snorts and finishes off the block of cheddar. She’s pulling out a rectangle of blue cheese when the doorbell rings. A glance to the backyard says that Josephine and Cullen have not heard it, and when she looks back to Henry he is holding up a thin piece of smoked salmon, grinning at her expectantly.

 

“Salmon beats cheese,” he says quickly.

 

“Knife beats salmon” she retorts, waving her blade.

 

Henry only answers, “Make it quick, then!” She tuts as he turns his back to her and begins wiping her hands as quickly as possible.

 

“Thanks, Queenie,” Henry sings as she departs.

 

“Don’t call me that!” she sings back while Henry cackles. Dumdum’s waiting patiently to maul any attackers behind the door, or shower them in fur and slobber. She can’t always tell which when his body goes very still. It turns out to be the second, she discovers as she opens the door. The screen door is already open and the dog tears past her to the blond man who is waiting.

 

“Gus!” he shouts and Regina smiles as he intercepts the happy creature. So, not a threat then, she thinks mildly. There is a short woman standing next to the man, watching him and the dog with a contented smile. When Dumdum turns on her , she simply extends a palm to his face. Based on her size, it’s clear that Dumdum could overpower her with his weight, but he stops short of her hand and sits promptly.

 

“Good dog,” she says and burrows her fingers into the fur atop his skull.

 

Regina’s not sure what she was expecting, but the mismatched pair is not it. The man looks enough like a SEAL, trim, but more muscled than lean. He has an easy smile set beneath warm brown eyes. The woman is more than a head shorter than him, with straight dark hair and bright blue eyes. Her smile is more reserved, and it feels like a formality when she turns it on Regina.

 

“Hello. I’m Regina Trevelyan,” Regina greets them politely, “You must be Henry’s friends. Or maybe you’re Gus’s friends?” She laughs at her own joke, and the man laughs, too. His companion’s smile deepens only slightly, but she does not show teeth.

 

“Yes, I’m Alistair Guerrin, and this is Neria.”

 

“Surana,” Neria adds in a slight accent, extending a hand while Alistair plays with the dog. Her grip is firm, and beneath her sleeve Regina can see a line of muscle that reaffirms her occupation.

 

“Won’t you come in,” she offers and Alistair dutifully shakes her hand as he enters the house.

 

“Pleased to meet you. Henry told us his sister was going to be here. You’re the doctor, right?”

 

“Not for another year, actually,” she says, feeling a little bewildered and a little flattered that Henry would mention her to his friends, much less her studies.

 

She leads them into the kitchen while Dumdum begins to settle and Henry greets them with enthusiastic salutations. He and Alistair grip each other’s forearms in a style that seems more for show than tradition. Neria kisses his cheek in a manner reminiscent of Josephine.

 

“So glad you guys made it,” Henry announces, retrieving a beer that he hands to Alistair.

 

“Well,” Alistair sing-songs. He uncaps the bottle and passes it to Neria, who takes a small sip like it’s a glass of wine. “Its entirely possible we could have stayed on base and eaten the same lumpy shepherd’s pie as all the other poor idiots, but how is Shepherd’s pie at all patriotic?”

 

“Bleu D’auvergne?” Regina offers, lifting the cutting board into their reach.

 

“Ooh, yes, please!” Alistair says appreciatively. Neria picks one of each of them and drops the curds into his hand while Henry and Regina chuckle. “No need to go all out on our behalf,” he says a moment later, but it’s clear that he’s pleased.

 

“So, medical school?” Neria prompts as Regina returns the impromptu cheese board to its place. The presentation’s not great, but she’s sure Josephine will forgive her. Either that, or just make it right herself.

 

“Yes. George Washington University.”

 

“Also patriotic,” Alistair intones before Neria elbows him in the ribs. He only grins and helps himself to a drink from the refrigerator.

 

“One of our teammates has a sister in medical school,” Neria offers, and Regina nods politely.

 

“Oh, really?” Alistair asks, as if the information is news to him. “Which one?”

 

“Carver’s twin. She’s up at one of the fancy northeastern schools.”

 

“Very different from Hawke, don’t you think?” the taller SEAL offers, more genial than anything Regina could have expected. In looks, Alistair is the soldier. In demeanor, Neria. “Damn, Carver would never make it through med school.”

 

“I don’t know,” Neria interjects. “I thought the same thing about Anders, but he still made rank, didn’t he?”

 

She continues to listen politely, throwing discreet looks at Henry, who is grinning at the two of them. Maybe he knows Carver and Anders, but she doesn’t, and roundabout conversations about other people’s relations and teammates in far off Ivy Leagues has never been her cup of tea. Oh, she can mingle with the best of them, but mingling is not why she came to Florida.

 

No, she came to relax and spend time with Cullen and mingling falls under neither category. Alistair and Neria seem nice enough, but if past experience with Josephine and Henry are right, she’ll have plenty of time in the next few hours to get to know them and be regaled with stories of their other compatriots.

 

She’s just decided to depart when the back door opens and Josephine enters carrying the tray of food from cooking out. Cullen is behind her, clunky utensils grasped awkwardly in one hand as he closes the door with the other. Regina smiles, knowing Josephine probably wrangled the tray away from him to play good hostess, and she wants to compliment him for his effort just the same. Then he turns and catches sight of them. Not her and Henry and Josephine, but Alistair and Neria.

 

The utensils clatter to the floor, and Regina’s easiness evaporates as she watches the blood drain from Cullen’s face. The rest of the group turns at the sound, and several people speak at once.

 

“Cullen?”

 

“Oh my God.”

 

“Rutherford?”

 

“Gus, no!”

 

The words mingle over each other in a confusion that alarms Regina, but she is already walking toward him, ignoring the dog’s sudden chewing of the fallen grilling tongs. All around her the energy has rocketed from enjoyable and calm to frenetic and jarring.

 

She takes Cullen’s hand, squeezing his fingers, and before she can stop herself, she asks of the party behind her, “How do you all know each other?” His hand is limp in hers, and sweat is breaking out on his forehead. His jaw is trembling. No one is answering her question, but with what is happening in front of her history is quickly dropping low on her priorities.

 

“Hey,” she says calmly, and her other hand finds his cheek. “Hey, look at me,” she commands softly, turning his gaze toward her. “It’s OK,” she murmurs. “It’s OK.” A gasp cuts through the air between them, and Regina’s eyes widen as Cullen’s mouth opens.

 

With a thin voice he explains, “They got me out.”

 

She glances back to the SEALs. Alistair’s eyes are hard, sympathetic, and Neria looks like there are cracks in the ground beneath her feet. Whatever is happening, _she_ doesn’t know how to solve it. Regina glances back to Cullen as the pieces in front of her begin to orient themselves into something understandable, something horrifying. Right before her eyes, though, Cullen is deteriorating, and no one is moving except for Dumdum. She has to get him out of here.

 

“It’s all right,” she reminds him, dropping the hand at his face down to his waist. Minute tremors are running through him, and Regina quickly cuts off the part of her that wants to empathize with him. Her eyes narrow as she pulls him towards the room he has been occupying. The platitude is repeated, “It’s OK,” as his fingers spasm in hers. Only a half-glance back to the group behind her reveals their concern, but another body pressing in on him isn’t going to help, and she shakes her head.

 

They make it to Cullen’s room, closing the door behind them. It’s as tidy as she’s ever seen a guest room, and as Cullen sits heavily on the bed, she says firmly, “Listen to me, Cullen.”

 

He looks up at her through too-wet eyes, and she kneels in front of him so he doesn’t feel so boxed in.

 

“Take a deep breath… Come on, deep breath.”

 

His eyes fall closed as he follows through. It’s ragged, forcing his defiant lungs to open. “Exhale slowly. That’s it.” He opens his eyes again and holds her stare. She cannot think about how his gaze is already rimmed with red or how her own hands feel like shaking. “Another deep breath,” she commands, and reaches for his hands. His grip is tight now.

 

“Bring your hands over your head as far as you can go,” she instructs him calmly. The motion stutters as his tears begin to fall, but he makes the full reach and Regina turns herself to a stone. “And back down,” she murmurs, falling into a lulling rhythm with her instructions. He’s no longer looking at her, but over her shoulder at a ghost, a shadow she will not entertain. “It’s just a memory. You’re here. It hurts, but you’re safe. Breathe,” she cues. Once more his hands lift over his head, and Regina swallows thickly, resists the urge to brush away the tears collecting at his chin. His arms tremble, but she can see he’s trying to regain control.

 

Curiosity nips at her focus. Four months ago they met, and about eight months before that his PTS had developed, the symptoms unrelenting and visceral. That was all she knew of his timeline. Obviously, Surana and Guerrin both played roles in this history she has underestimated. Cullen had been a prisoner of war? Where had he been? What had happened to him? They had… _retrieved_ him? It was the kind of things SEALs did, right? When they weren’t killing terrorists and bolstering bad Hollywood movie plots. There’s no space for confusion on their involvement as Cullen himself had confirmed it, but their shared history is for another time. She has to focus on the here and now.

 

She’s seen him before in a bad state, but this feels so much worse, and she already knows why. Has she ever been more invested in him than she is now? Last night’s kiss feels like something far away. It had been happy, light, easy. Or had she just imagined those feelings as some sort of believable veneer? She has to bite the inside of her mouth to prevent a frown from overtaking her calm expression. Doubt is another curiosity she cannot entertain.

 

It’s several minutes later that his breathing evens out, and she finally silences her cues. His arms remain at his sides, but he will not look at her. Her hand reaches for his shoulder, but it retracts before she can make contact. It’s a protective response, she knows it intellectually, but to her it feels like an assault. This time her doubt assails her like rocket fire. Has she overstepped herself? What is her role here?

 

“Cullen?” she asks softly, finally braving the silence.

 

His response is collected, but swift, “I need some time.” His breath only trembles slightly, and though she knows he is not out of the woods, she cannot help but admire his resilience.

 

“Of course,” she answers immediately, climbing to her feet. She can be quiet and unobtrusive.

 

“No,” he clarifies with a small shake of his head, and his tone takes on an uncomfortable flavor of strain, “Alone, please.”

 

Oh.

 

“Cullen, are you- do you think it’s best to be alone, right now?” she almost whispers, trying to strike a balance between sensitivity and the knowledge that isolating himself is perhaps the worst thing he can do for himself. Frustration twists his expression, but he still will not face her.

 

“Contrary to your conviction, Doctor Trevelyan, you’re not in my head,” he says sharply, and Regina stills. She waits, not sure how to respond to the hurtful words. “Get out, already!” he snaps, finally cutting her with a glare. She leans back, glancing away from him. Her fingers curl and uncurl at her sides, grasping for comfort where there is none.

 

Before he can protest, she turns back to him and presses a kiss against his curly crown. His body arrests, and she pulls away toward the door.

 

“I’ll be near,” she offers. His eyes follow her, but he makes no other movement. Regina takes a quick, deep breath and does as he says, stepping outside into the hallway.

 

The door closes firmly behind her, and she releases the breath slowly. One hand holds to the knob while she lifts the other and watches fine shivers run from her wrist to her fingertips. Her chest feels just as shaky, and she clenches her jaw to reclaim control, spreading her fingers and flexing them rhythmically.

 

How did this happen, she wonders, when not two hours ago they had been laughing and planning ludicrous futures? Only a _look_ at the SEALs had undone everything this trip was meant to accomplish. Her friend, her something more, had been triggered in a bad way, and not could not stand to have her in the same room.

 

She scowls, and the tremors stop beneath a fierce clench of her fingers. Had the SEALs only been invited today? It was the first she had heard of it, along with a series of other unpleasant firsts.

 

Soft voices circulate from the kitchen, and Regina takes a step away from Cullen’s door. The four are practically huddled together, whispering amongst themselves like gossiping crones, but she catches a snatch of words as she nears, “under the radar” and “rescue.” She is not at all surprised when the talking ceases as she steps into view. None of them look away from her, though, and she doesn’t know whether she should be assuaged by their lack of guilt or nurse her resentment at their boldness.

 

It is Josephine who takes the first step, asking, “How is he?”

 

Regina’s diplomacy is ingrained, and so she doesn’t snap to relay the truth of the situation, but says calmly, “He’s got it under control.” She hopes he does, anyway. Then Josephine opens her mouth again, and Regina raises a hand.

 

It’s ingrained in her to be diplomatic, but that doesn’t mean that she won’t protect the people she cares about, even from other people she cares about. Her stare is sharp when she turns it on her brother.

 

All levity from their time in the kitchen is passed as she asks, “Did you plan this?”

 

Denial is swift and imminent, anger from Henry and chastisement from Josie.

 

“What the hell?”

 

“Regina!”

 

She endures their shouting as she lifts her eyebrows, nodding her head in appeasement, but she is far from satisfied.

 

“You have to see this from my perspective,” she asserts, and takes a step toward the counter top. The cheese is half-gone, but the bottle of red that has been left to breathe is open and nearly full. “Everything was fine yesterday,” she explains, reaching for the bottle. It’s probably meant to be served with dinner. “Better than fine. Then at the first hint of us liking each other, I get the third degree from Josephine, and Henry invites people directly related to Cullen’s trauma.”

 

Fuck dinner, she thinks, and closes her fingers tightly around the neck.

 

“Indirectly,” Surana corrects her, and Regina feels a flare of anger so sharp and sudden that she pins Neria with a glare. The shorter woman only shrugs, but does not bother to look away from the accusation in Regina’s eyes. Whatever indecision she was feeling before, clearly it’s passed.

 

“Reggie,” Henry pleads, his tone softened. “This is a complete coincidence.”

 

“Is it?” she asks sharply. Every word any of them speaks feels like a poke at a wound.

 

“What?” he demands, “So now you don’t believe in uncommon occurrences?”

 

She laughs sharply, because she’s the scientist of the group. She _does_ believe- in coincidences and statistical chance and s-curves and all the rest. But she’s also a doctor in training, learning to notice signs and patterns and to trust her instincts.

 

“I really want to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I also believe in the obvious,” she says with finality. The bottom of the wine bottle scrapes against the counter top as she drags it and herself toward the back door.

 

On the back porch the causeway is quiet, and Dumdum is quiet as he joins her. Here her hands can shake freely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alternate title to this work is "Destin'd" since so much of it takes place in Florida x.x.
> 
> Lots and lots and lots of feelings about this chapter, which went through about five different drafts before I came to one with which I was satisfied. Still not entirely sure I handled it to justification, but I have done it with all sincerity, and for that I have no regrets.
> 
> Tons of head canons about Alistair and my Surana. You'll notice he's Guerrin here, because the only thing I can think is that Maric is some famous senator who cannot acknowledge Alistair or he'll lose his seat. So Alistair is raised by his "dad," Teagan and he's as happy and well-adjusted as one can be. Neria's story is more looping, an Israeli-American, who spent many years in both countries but left Israel after her mandatory service with the IDF ended, only to enroll in a "soft" program like the Navy. Eventually, she joined the SEALs (yeah, even though the SEALs don't have women, IRL, booo). Basically she knows a shit-ton of krav maga, and Alistair is totally in love with his pint-sized warrior boo. Anders is their team medic and Carver is hella backup muscle (ALL THE HAWKES ARE ALIVE, FIGHT ME).


	9. It's Not Destin'd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dark times ahead, friends. You have been warned._
> 
>  
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listened to “Debut” by Melanie Laurent about 8 million times in writing this. It could have been closer to 50, but 8 million is a nice round number.
> 
> Also, on a **very important note** , there are a few lines at the beginning of this chapter that, in my opinion, are not that gruesome. However, if you might feel uncomfortable reading mentions of blood, please skip the first section of text until the white space. 
> 
> There are several large white spaces, which are intentional in the context of the story. However, only the first lines hold the more 'brutal' content.

The mountains near Ghazni, so cold every day. How can the desert be so cold?

Distant gun fire reminds him of fireworks from home, and he hears Rosalie whining not to take the last sparkler.

Welts and cuts in his skin with the shouting, with assurances of his death. God, he wants to die, please…

Blood in his teeth from the ragged tear in his lip but it’s the only thing that parches his throat, but now it’s gone sticky and there’s no relief.

 

 

 

A woman’s voice, and bright blue eyes ensconcing in his vision, “This is no trick, we’re here to help,” and he wants to believe her, but there’s no _reason_ in it.

A man’s hands at his arms, lifting him even while his body cries out. He knows agony.

 

 

 

He’s rescued from captivity, delirious with dehydration and hunger. They tell him he’s sporting cuts that will heal and scars that may not. He sleeps for days, and by the time he comes to, over three weeks have passed since his initial capture. None of the rest of his unit survives, and Cullen is shipped back Stateside to ride out the rest of his healing in an inpatient VA facility. He is three door’s from the nurse’s desk and two doors from a psychiatrist, who prescribes pills that dull the ache and try to steal what good memories he has to tamp down the bad. Nothing steals those.

 

For a while he endures it.

 

Then he can’t.

 

He goes back to work almost immediately after his discharge, with an email to his family that he is fine and no, he doesn’t need to return home for time off.

 

He doesn’t.

 

He needs to work, to forget, to make a difference for people who can’t protect themselves.

 

* * *

When Cullen comes out of the fog in his head, away from the reality of his past, the room he is sitting in is dark. It takes him a few moments to recognize the duffel bag in the corner as his, dirty and clean clothes alike peeking from the top. He’s in Florida. He’s in Destin. Not DC. Not Afghanistan.

His next breath comes as a gasp and he presses his knuckles to his forehead until they stop shaking. He has vague memories of Regina sitting, or perhaps standing, in front of him, her hand on his wrist, calm words like a chant from her mouth, and- God save him, the SEALs. The same SEALs who had pulled him out of the hell hole where he had prayed for death, for some kind of mercy that had finally come in the form of too-blue eyes and strong hands at his shoulders.

The room is nearly dark and he looks to his watch to see that  _hours_ have passed since he was sitting on the porch with her, pulling burgers from the grill with Josephine. He stands from the bed, stretching his legs and the ache in his knees before turning towards the door. Hesitation catches him before he can pull it open, and doubts wash over him. It’s been hours. What’s happened since then? What is everyone going to think? God, what kind of weakness has he shown them, what anger has he unleashed?

The demands of his own mind are relentless questions. Pathetic ones follow soon after. Does he have to see them again? Are they still here? No, he could withstand seeing them, perhaps.  _Now_ , so many hours later, he could anyway, couldn’t he?

“ _It’s all right. You’re OK,_ ” is the soothing whisper at the back of his mind, Regina’s voice all over again. The words are an honest recollection, if he can trust himself with anything, but they feel far away, disconnected from the here and now.

God, what did he do to Regina?

It’s that thought that propels him from the room and towards the foyer. He can hear distant voices, coming from the direction of Henry and Josephine’s room, but the rest of the house is empty. The food has been put away from the kitchen, which is neatly cleaned. It seems Neria and Alistair have already departed. It does not shame him at all to feel grateful at the discovery.

The rest of the house has been cleaned, but he has not heard a whit of it. The same way he has overlooked Regina sleeping on the couch. For this he can mostly forgive himself since the weredog Gus is curled against her back and his head is perched atop her hip. She’s mostly hidden beneath dark fur, and Cullen feels a moment of caution where he wonders if the dog is protecting her.

From him.

It might be appropriate.

Even so, he cannot help but draw close to her, and Gus does not stop him as he kneels down behind her to… to just  _be_ . She’s well asleep, her flushed face taking deep, even breaths. It barely even costs him pride to lean forward and rest his nose against the back of her head, time his breath to hers in a manner that finally, finally calms his heart.

A moment later he backs away from her, running a hand through his loosened curls as he steps onto the back porch. It  _is_ evening, he thinks with some dread. Distant fireworks over the Bay are like the point of a knife along his spine. So busy is he trying to get a handle on his thoughts, on himself, that he does not realize Henry has joined him until the man speaks.

“You OK?” are the words that reach through his disordered thoughts.

“OK,” is all Cullen can relinquish, and that might be a stretch.

“Do you need anything right now?” he asks vaguely, and Cullen frowns at him in curiosity. Henry half-smirks, “Something to break? Something to fix? Someone to yell at? Shoulder to cry on?”

With a shake of his head he denies the comforts, “I’m all right.” Though, if he had his preference he could be sitting at home watching 80’s sci-fi from the comfort of his couch, a smaller hand tucked into his.

“I believe you,” Henry offers point blank. Cullen takes the words, and for a few seconds he just meditates on them, weaves the statement through his ruffled mind. It’s harder than he will admit, but he believes Henry, too.

“OK is good,” the other man admits, staring out into the Bay. Three small words, but the tone in which he says them suddenly puts Cullen’s guard up.

“But?” he asks, and Henry faces him, hands resting on the wood banister.

“’OK’ really isn’t good enough for Regina.”

Hiding his feelings is never a skill Cullen has sought to cultivate, but he wishes like hell he could keep the look of dismay off of his face when Henry’s words register. Her brother is still looking at him, calm, reserving condemnation, but having already made his judgments. It’s a fearful thing, suddenly, the idea of losing her. Nevermind this new development between them or whatever might come from it; it’s the beer-drinking, movie-watching, off-key-singing possible hole in his life that suddenly distresses him. Could Henry influence her that way? Would he?

“I haven’t had an attack in a while,” he assures the other man, remembering the few weeks ago when Regina had suggested this whole trip. Maybe they should have just gone to the botanical gardens and called it a day. “I wasn’t expecting… Alistair and Neria to be here…”

“I’m really sorry about that,” Henry says, the first hint of dismay in his voice. “I had no idea… They’re usually on confidential mission, anyway. It’s part of the reason I invited them- so they could get some down time.”

“I understand,” Cullen says, holding no grudge against the man for his friends. No problem exists in him admitting respect for the pair. In the same vein, neither can he control his reaction after thinking about them. The association is too strong. “The point is,” he says a moment later, “I’m OK.”

“So you are,” Henry concedes, and Cullen has no time to feel relief before he adds, “For now.” The dark-haired man turns and leans fully against the railing, facing inside to where he can see Gus watching them. Cullen follows his glance, but Regina is still asleep on the couch, her foot dangling from its edge.

“The thing about Regina,” her brother explains, fondness in his voice, “is that she’s in med school, and she worked her ass off to get there. Maybe she hasn’t told you exactly what that means, but she’s taking everything on herself. Our parents cut her off because she made some tough decisions about  _my_ life. They don’t even call on birthdays, anymore. It doesn’t bother me to be treated that way, but it’s different for her. She was the youngest, the baby, and they never had bad blood between them. She  _has_ to miss them at times, but for her to lose the trade-off, too.”

“I thought  _you_ were the trade-off,” Cullen interjects. Henry sighs like he can push all of the air out of Florida and Cullen shakes his head. “You think I’m a distraction.” He grimaces, an unhappy smile caught in the glass reflection of the doors in front of him. Whatever Henry can or cannot force Regina to do, Cullen can see that the man wants it to be his decision.

“I know what kind of shit you’ve been through. Believe me. I get it,” and the words are vehement enough, but Cullen knows from Regina that he speaks the truth. Henry laughs in a joyless manner before he shares, “I’m a hypocrite if I discourage you, but I’m a bad brother if I encourage Regina, and I’ve always loved her more than myself.”

What hurts the most is that nothing the man’s said is unreasonable. Hell, it resonates with Cullen that he’s trying to protect someone so obviously important to him. The reminder of their previous interactions makes Cullen wonder at the stress he’s put on her, especially with an already stressful schedule. Late nights, her drop-ins, and the worry and fear they have experienced in moments like this afternoon. Except, when has it ever been  _her_ ? It’s always been him, pulling her down into worry and anxiety, stealing time she could be devoting to study or rest.

He is a fool.

“I see what you mean,” he says quietly.

“You’re a good man. You’ll do what’s right,” Henry says at least, lifting a hand as if to clap him on the shoulder. He hesitates at the last moment, caught in his own doubts, and then withdraws, leaving the porch to Cullen in solitude.

“I suppose I will.”

* * *

She wakes to a hand at her shoulder, ten kinds of groggy as she vaguely remembers a bottle of red wine and some fancy cheese from earlier in the day. Her body is too hot, unfamiliar weight at her back, fur poking through her shirt.

When she glances back to see Cullen leaning over her, a soft smile on his face, she asks, “Are you on top of me?”

“What?” he asks, smile vanishing, and he looks alarmed for some reason.

“It’s so heavy,” she clarifies, elbowing back against him. There’s a ruffle of motion as she suddenly sees Dumdum jump down to the floor, and her body rolls back awkwardly, but Cullen steadies her with a hand at her waist. “Oh, it was Dumdum…” she chuckles and strokes a hand over his forearm. She sniffs sleepily, then says, “Hi.”

“Regina,” he chuckles, twisting his hand to grasp her fingers.

“Hey, you were napping… earlier-” she begins, and then suddenly stops herself. “No,” she says with more awareness and twists her head sharply before sitting up, holding to his wrist. The memory of him pale and shaking in the guest room shoves away any remaining sleepiness and she asks calmly, “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” he says, with little enough conviction, but she nods. “Are you all right?”

She smiles faintly and nods, cupping the side of his neck. Her lips find his forehead for a comforting gesture, and he sighs as though his world has righted itself. It’s how she knows that he’s better, even when his tone says otherwise. A second later she slides to the edge of the couch and wraps both arms around his shoulders. His own arms mirror the hold around her waist, closing the space between them with another sigh.

“You sure you’re OK?” he asks, and she laughs because yes, yes she’s OK.

“I was a little scared for you this afternoon,” she admits, pulling away to regard him. Her fingers rest gently on either side of his neck, thumbs running over his jaw soothingly. The expression he wears in the present is one she’s seen before, doubt and self-recrimination, and she hates it. She  _hates_ it for him, but she knows it has its time.

“Did you get some alone time?” she asks softly as she remembers his words.

“Plenty,” he says, and she can hear that he’s trying to tamp down on his self-deprecation. “I only came out a few minutes ago.”

“Oh!” she cried, “What time is it?” Before he can answer, though, she’s looking around the dark room, asking, “Did everyone leave?”

“The SEALs left,” he explains and she looks at him again, poised to ask another time if he’s OK. She stops short, though and doubles down on her nodding.

“Good,” she says, and is only surprised at the vehemence of her sentiment. She does not want to accuse her brother, throw him under the bus in front of Cullen, but she’s  _so_ angry with him. With him and Josephine both. “Cullen,” she says, suddenly, inspired and motivated.

“Yes?” he asks, slightly worry in his voice at her sudden shift.

“Do you want to leave?” she queries, holding his surprised stare. Despite what he’s been through this afternoon, his eyes are like warm honey as she looks at them, but they harden as she holds his gaze. It’s confusion, she recognizes, and he affirms it, when he speaks a second later.

“We’re not supposed to leave until day after tomorrow.”

“I know, but… the welcome is gone. We can just drive tonight. I’ll help. I’m- I’m just done. I think you’re done, too, aren’t you?” She drops a hand to his shoulder. It’s a good plan, to leave the discomfort behind, to just go home. Then Cullen sighs and reaches up to pull her fingers away. He shakes his head slightly, trying to smile.

“I think if we leave now, we’ll hurt your family very badly, and I don’t want that. For them or for you.” Regina feels a low sound of disapproval rise from her throat before she can stop it. Cullen frowns at her.

“And what about the hurt they’ve done you?” she asks, sounding sharper than she intends.

“They didn’t hurt me, Reggie,” he says firmly. “The timing this afternoon was a hell of a coincidence, but that’s all it was.” She shakes her head and Cullen smiles sadly at her. “Don’t you see? The only thing they want to do is protect you.” Her scowl is rooted in surprise and hurt and she pulls her hand from his.

“From you!”

This time he doesn’t argue with her, but his face smooths out and his eyes fall away, and it’s all but a confirmation. Anger she can handle, and nerves she can handle, shouting and fear… But this trepidation? Toward her?

“Cullen…” she says quietly, worried and curious. The sense of dread descending on her is omnipresent, and yet she has to bear it.

“Reggie, it’s-”

Behind him the door to Henry and Josie’s room open and Regina looks up sharply to see her brother step out. Even Cullen glances back to see his head is poking around the corner.

“Oh, sorry. Did you need some privacy?” he asks calmly. He even has the gall to look concerned.

“Henry!” She’s not quite shouting, but she will not have her words be misunderstood. She heaves her body up from the couch and moves around Cullen to the culprit of this mess. “Tell me you’re not behind this.”

“What is ‘this?’” he asks, leaning against the door post, even as Cullen stands. Regina opens her mouth to say- to say what? Cullen is breaking up with her? They aren’t- They haven’t even had time. God, it had only been a few hours ago that they even talked about it… But they agreed! It hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours since she kissed him and suddenly it feels like she’s climbed the mountain only to be pushed off of its peak.

“Why are you making him push me away?” she asks firmly, turning so that she can glance between them equally.

“I’m not making anyone do anything, Regina,” he denies, but the tone to his words is so subtle that she can read him clearly. He may not have forced Cullen’s hand, but he weaseled his way into the man’s thoughts, and now she is so  _angry_ .

“Don’t lie to me,” she demands. “I’ve got Josephine whispering in my ear, and very specific people from Cullen’s past showing up, and now this? You work very quickly in the span of a day.”

“If what you’re implying were the case, what would my motivation be?” Henry demands, coolly. His tone is not at all soothing, but challenging.

“To protect me, obviously!” she exclaims, and Henry holds his hands out to ask what the problem is. Regina takes a step toward him, stabbing at the ground with her finger, “Because I stood with you when Père and Mère went off the deep end, and now  _you_ feel guilty about it, and you’re so,  _so_ misguided. The whole point is that I’m an  _adult._ I make my own choices, and I care about Cullen and I should be able to make my own decisions with  _him_ about what the means. God, Henry, I love you, but you’re an interfering idiot!”

“Regina,” Josephine interjects sharply, stepping into the hallway, but Regina cannot even look at her.

“And what about school?” Henry asks quietly, almost unphased by the insult.

“What about it?” she shouts, and then squeezes her fists as she remembers to control her volume, her intensity. The high stress is already showing around Henry’s eyes. She can’t keep shouting, even if she wants to. Two survivors of PTS are on either side of her, both of whom she cares for, and she so badly wants to respect them, but she hasn’t been this angry since their parents tried to pull this same shit.  _You must protect yourself from what Henry's going through. It won't end well for him._

“No one but me knows my schedule, my timing and commitments.” She glares at him pointedly, even as she finds grounding in the truth of her statement. “I took the MCAT three fucking times, I’m not afraid of a relationship with some baggage. There was so much less fucking baggage before we came to Florida.”

“Reggie, calm down.” It’s Cullen who speaks, and his tone will hear no argument. He’s never spoken to her so strongly, so commanding. Not about  _her_ . She can only stare at him.

Her hands move as if to question why he’s suddenly agreeing with Henry. Didn’t they just say they would  _try_ ? “It’s not… It’s just making it worse,” he explains. “This is your  _family_ .”

“You told me Henry didn’t say anything to you this morning?” she asks Cullen quietly, her eyes wide, still waiting for a denial whose chances are becoming thinner by the moment. His brow furrows and she shakes her head.

“He didn’t. We spoke this afternoon. After… everything.”

Air abandons her lungs and without a sound she drops her hands. Her eyes are burning.

“Uh huh,” she says faintly, unable to look at any of them while she masters herself. The floor around her feet is swimming. “And… what exactly is happening?” she asks, before she lifts her gaze, as strong as she can make it, to Cullen. She refuses to look at Henry, infuriated with him and embarrassed to even have a witness at what is happening.

Oh God, what  _is_ happening?

“He has a valid point, Regina.” Regina. Not Reggie. “Don’t you think university- your  _future_ \- is important enough to have all of your focus? All of your attention?”

“There won’t even be a fight? There won’t be resistance?”, she thinks with a hard frown, shaking her head slightly. Ten words from Henry and he’s ready to throw in the towel? What is motivating this? He can’t- he can’t really believe that this is the best decision? For both of them?

She’s tapped out, at capacity, and what else is left to say? How often did she fight for Cullen when it seemed his strength was all gone and yet it was still in him to fight? But now it’s her turn, and… and he won’t bother? He caves at the slightest resistance?

Her voice is flat when she asks, “Can we…?” No, she’s not asking. “I want to leave tonight.”

There is a pause as she stares at her feet, trying to recall tears before they fall.

“I think it would be better if we stayed to try and resolve this, but…”

She nods, bereft of even acerbic laughter, “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.” Resolution?

Everything seems plenty resolved from where she’s standing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D:


	10. In the Direction of Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relatively short chapter, but necessary. They are adults, afterall. There is no need for _extra_ drama.

Stiff.

Awkward.

Uncomfortable.

The feelings describing the interior of the jeep keep rolling through her mind in a steady crescendo, and none of them are _good_ , but she can’t quite motivate herself to do anything to change it. When was the last time she was so angry, full of cold fury and no outlet for it? Riding beneath it all is a slab of disappointment and melancholy that she doesn’t want to explore any further. Anger is so much easier.

Between yelling at her brother and the fact that Cullen has said nothing else to explain himself, the trip home is nothing like its first leg. Regina turns on the radio until it scrolls through all of the stations, country, classic rock (Cullen loves it but none of it feels right), even some public radio symphonic pieces, and then turns it off when no song surpasses the silence. She rolls the window down and tries to grasp the warm, humid air, as if she might be able to take it with her, all the feelings attached to it.

All she wants to remember is the drive down and their one day of good memories. Even the stupid karaoke and her horrible singing had been worth the embarrassment for what came after. Standing on the precipice of something new, and she had put her courage out there and tried. Cullen… hadn’t he tried, too? Every moment they’d been together from the first time she came to his apartment, had been something new, and how should this be any different? Wasn’t it just another possibility for something better?

Ten words from Henry. Ten words or ten minutes, undercutting the months they’d known each other, and erasing the hours they had spent talking just that morning.

“ _I want to try if you want to,_ ” he had said, and he had meant it. Cullen isn’t a liar. He’s so much better than that.

She clenches her fingers tightly and retreats into the interior of the car.

Cullen notes her fidgeting and asks with a control she envies, “Are you all right?” She wants to roll her eyes or snap at him, but that would only play into the poison that Henry already put in his head- that she’s not mature enough to make decisions for herself, or that she somehow can’t handle difficult situations. She does not know where Henry has imagined this person, perhaps it’s because he hasn’t seen her in two years, but that’s not who she is. She doesn’t know if she ever was.

“What do you think?” she asks instead. He draws up to defend and she explains quickly, “I’m not trying to dodge the question or be inflammatory. I really want to know what _you think_ of this situation.”

Cullen glances at her and she waits, affirming her question, then wishes she hadn’t hedged so much hope in his willingness to speak as he says, “I think Henry’s right.”

It’s another kick to the stomach, especially when he is calm and clear-headed with his explanations. His eyes are sad, but his voice is strong. It seems to her now that it’s always been that way when he speaks. “Even if I were… completely fine, the most well-adjusted man on the planet, which we both know isn’t the case, would it be a good idea for you to be starting a relationship with someone _now_?”

Regina shakes her head, can’t help the scoff that leaps out of her mouth, “You sound like him, like you both think I’m incapable of making decisions about my own life.”

Cullen barrels on, “That’s not it. Anyone who knows you knows how competent you are, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t care about you. It’s a full time job, Reggie. It’s more than a full time job with studying and with residency applications coming up.”

“Don’t you think I know that? I know that! _I_ am the one in med school, for all that everyone around me thinks they know what it’s like. _I_ know what it’s like. I am the _queen_ of time management, Cullen.” She’s trying to maintain a normal volume, but it is so hard when her emotions are running high. “Besides, there are a lot of people who date in medical school, OK? Who are _married_ , even. They have their own special problems, but-”

“I’m pretty sure they’re not worried about dating me,” he says without drama or flare. As if it’s a fact that cannot be denied.

The words are about him, but she’s the one who flinches. It’s as if he’s just slipped a knife between her _ribs_. And hasn’t he? Doesn’t he know how much she absolutely cares about him? He’s not- He’s not supposed to put himself in such a light, not in front of her, not even in his own head, much less from his mouth or his heart.

“I don’t even know how to respond to that without shouting vulgarities,” she says flatly and turns away from him. Then the words come, contradicting the statement and she is completely uncaring. She turns, bracing herself against the back of her seat and the dashboard, and Cullen’s face looks worried. “You are one of the best men I have ever met. Are you hearing me?” His eyes stay focused on the road, and she grits her teeth. “You know what, just pull over. I can’t say this without your full attention.”

“Reggie…”

“Either you pull over the car,” she growls, “or I’m going to start tossing luggage out of the window.”

From the road, his eyes flick to her just enough to see how serious the discussion is.

The jeep rolls to a stop on the highway shoulder. A flick of his finger switches the hazard lights on, beginning a quiet rhythm in the cab. Cullen drags his hands slowly over his face, and turns to give her the attention she has demanded.

Regina is a righteous blaze of justice and truth and her words speak with a power that needs no volume, enabling the quiet that she knows he so desperately needs, “You, Cullen Stanton Rutherford, are one of the best men I have _ever_ met. Please look at me, so you understand my conviction.” He turns and she is not sure if she can keep her eyes from softening or not, when she has to be _firm_.

“You are funny, you are smart and honest and loyal. You are brave and selfless.” Her lungs are suddenly tight, because she sees it all so _clearly_. She’s known it in every interaction they have had, the way he calms her about the future, the way he owns his past, the way he just knows to put an arm around her shoulders at the proper time. Her voice chokes on the words, “You are kind, and good and so, so courageous in the face of fear.” She blinks and feels hot tears on her face, but she pushes past them, breathing deeply. “You are not broken, nor are you worthy of the hate you want to heap on yourself… So, _please_ ,” catches her voice and it breaks. She swallows, “Please, explain why you want to do this. If it were any other person, someone not in medical school, would this be an issue?”

Cullen’s eyes are rimmed red, but he does not look away from her. She is the first to break eye contact, reaching for his palms, which he does not withhold. She rubs her thumbs over the backs of his hands until he squeezes her fingers.

“When you put it that way, I don’t really have any excuses,” is his shaky answer. He doesn’t try to hide himself, or his feelings. “But Regina, don’t you think _you_ deserve better? Someone who isn’t already-”

“Don’t say it,” she says flatly, and the tears are running freely down either side of her nose. “Because you’re not. Not broken, or worth-” she chokes as she begins crying in earnest then, and releases his hands to rub her face dry in futile effort. One arm she holds under her nose to stifle the flow there and she feels vulnerable and exposed until she hears Cullen’s seatbelt unbuckle and he slides closer to wrap his arms around her. His heart is pounding in his chest, matching hers strength for strength.

And it’s all she wants, to feel close to him, to _be_ close to him, but what else is it?

They could pretend that this is enough, that they are fixed now, but they aren’t. Comfort is not reconciliation. Even the thought that they need to reconcile, that their friendship might suffer for this when they have hardly taken steps towards something different, is painful and unwanted.

“You can’t do this to me,” she says with a shake of her head. “This. _This_ is the only thing I hold against you.” Even so, her arms circle him tightly to hold him close. “This… wishy-washy indecision. This isn’t you, Cullen, and I don’t want to be put through the ringer when it’s so obvious you care about me, when you know I care about you.”

“I do. On both counts,” he assures her.

For a long time the only sounds around them are the roar of cars breaking through their own sniffles.

Eventually the tears stop, and as much as Regina wants to hold him, they are barely an hour into this trip, which is going to take all night. At least they’ll be able to sleep tomorrow. Everything feels raw and nothing is certain, yet. Cullen’s own face is not dry as he squeezes her shoulder.

“We’ll work it out,” he promises her. “It’ll take time, but we’ll work it out, OK?” She nods and settles back into her seat as he turns the keys in the ignition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, hang in there. It's not over. We will hit some smoother waters soon.


	11. Life Moves On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life moves on, and the world keeps turning even when we drag our heels.

Arriving at the duplex is a strange and hollow moment. The familiarity of it dulls the memories of the last few days but also beckons them closer, and Cullen can’t yet bring himself to think about them in detail, neither the bad nor the good. Not now. He’s at his limit. Already his shoulders and hips are stiff from driving and there’s nothing left for him to scrape out of his bottomed out emotions. Already the sun has been up for two hours, and the only thing he can commit to with certainty is a desire for sleep.

Regina does not speak as she climbs out of her seat, movements as tired and stiff as his own. She slowly grabs her bag, dragging it down from the waist-height level of the backseat without comment. Cullen takes her second before she can struggle further, but she turns toward home without comment.

Home… She’s so close and so far away.

At her door, she rifles through her keys, head bowed. He’ll have to remind her about the safety of having them ready before she reaches the door, but now is not the time. Now he stares at the visible expanse of her neck, the line of the shirt she has been wearing almost twenty-four hours. Quietly he sighs as she finally finds the proper key.

Her door opens a crack, the familiar wall beyond is visible in the dim light, but it feels at once inviting and foreign. Reading anymore into the dichotomy wants to sap the last of his energy, so he stops himself short. Regina turns and looks up at him with a solemn expression. It must be irony that in this moment he thinks he can read her perfectly. Any possible comfort from her flees as her words affirm her demeanor.

“I have a rotation tomorrow evening. I’m going to get some sleep before then. If…” She stops, swallows slowly and takes a breath. It’s time to collect her thoughts, to say the right thing. He knows it now, and yet her face looks pained. “If I pushed you too fast, if it was too much… I’m sorry. You shouldn’t feel like you bear all of the responsibility for what’s happened.” Something like a smile appears on her face, then fades before it can be called such, “I don’t even remember if I said that last night, but it needs saying.” She reaches for her second bag. The brush of her fingers against his does not linger, though she stares at his hand. Even her eyes depart quickly, glancing up to his face as she steps backward to her door.

“Call me…” she offers, and it’s almost a question. Gone are the straightforward commands that he has come to associate with her steadfast, stalwart personality.

_You’re tachy and sweating._

_I can do this all night, you know._

_…Just open the door!_

The person before him is diminished, nearly timid, and he almost certainly knows why.

“…When you’ve made up your mind.” She stares at him a moment longer, blue eyes wide. Then the door closes and she’s gone. Silence is between them, and it’s not just the door blocking him. He has not spoken a word since they reached the suburbs, unsure that anything he could say would make things better right now. They said everything there was to say last night somewhere between Andalusia and Atlanta and after that only the most necessary exchanges had occurred- water, restroom, fuel stops.

Regina had fallen asleep sometime shortly after he had pulled away from her, and he had contented himself with stealing glances at her slack-mouthed form, knowing that things were damaged between them.

It is strange to be the one standing here now, outside _her_ door, with the power to make things better. As many times as she has come to his aid, it is probably only fair. Yet it hurts to know that he has helped bring them to this position. The only questions now are how badly are they damaged, and if they can be made right. Do they need to be corrected? She seems to think so, and his heart wants to agree with her. God help him, his brain is even starting to agree.

* * *

 

The rotation seems to come even earlier than its scheduling. In a way, leaving Destin early is something of a blessing. She has a full day to mope around her apartment and pretend no one lives upstairs before university necessitates her return. It’s not enough time, not for her body and not nearly enough for her spirit. Then again, in a way, returning to the hospital is something of a blessing. It helps her take her mind off of Cullen and Henry and Josephine and the things she has no time to think about.

Patients are not entirely alleviating, though.

Her current patient has bilateral wrist fractures, a boy with too much time on the fourth of July showing his friends some skateboarding trick. Only gravity overruled him and he landed on two outstretched hands, breaking both wrists. Dorsal angulation of the radial head in the left wrist and scaphoidal fracture in the right. She doses his anesthesia and, once it has been administered, returns to set the bones. He watches her work with interest, almost calmly taking in the details. Brown skin is swollen and already bruising as she works.

“You’ll be casted for six weeks,” she explains near the end of the process. The bones are set, and he’s young so he is a good chance of healing without deficits, but it’s too early to tell how well the scaphoid will heal. “Before you leave today I want you and your dad to meet with occupational therapy to talk about some home healthcare setup, OK? They’ll help you figure out the best way to work with clothes, feeding, bathing.” He nods twice, and his father nods once before the young man opens his mouth.

With all seriousness, he asks, “I probably won’t be much good at skateboard camp next week then, will I?”

Regina blinks at him as her brow furrows. What? What does he even…? She looks to his father, who is also frowning at his son and completely silent, then turns back to her patient.

“Forrest, you’re not going to be able to wipe your own ass for six weeks. Skateboarding is _out_.” The blurted words are out before she can recall them, before she can even think to _not_ say them. His face flushes to a full, dark color and he begins to cry. With tears nearing, her own stature shrinks to about the size of a stethoscope. A quick glance to his father shows slightly better managed horror that is quickly morphing into anger.

Regina is letting herself out of the examination room while the man puts his arms around his son, and after some hastily muttered instructions, she makes a beeline for the break room before anyone can stop her. God in heaven, what was she thinking? Her own face is burning hot while embarrassment and misery mount inside of her. She has never spoken to a patient that way. There is absolutely _no_ excuse _for_ talking to a patient that way _ever_ , especially not stupid teenage boys who are just… stupid. And young. And have broken wrists. God, she’s an idiot.

Cole is in the break room managing his charting with a heroic focus that she promptly interrupts as she drops into a seat across from him. With a quiet huff of breath she drags her arms onto the table and drops her forehead on them. Deep breath after deep breath, slow and steady to try and manage her feelings. She made a mistake, yes, a big mistake, and now she has to deal with it.

Cole’s presence is almost negligible. He is steady and quiet, and doesn’t ask what’s wrong or put a comforting hand on her shoulder. They’ve known each other since second year pharma and his intuition with people is always spot on, even if they don’t realize it.

It should not surprise her when he asks, “So you’re not putting it behind you, then?”

But it does. It pokes the pain she has been trying, and failing, not to think about. Why would she ever say that to a patient? Why has Cullen not called her? She gives no response to her colleague, her friend, except to bury her head deeper in the cradle of her arms.

“That was never a very good option, anyway,” he shares calmly, soothing. Maybe he’s right. It’s only been a few days, and it’s not exactly like she was trying to forget.

There is a shuffle of motion and then a clink against the table. She glances up to see a steaming mug between the two of them. Floating in the top of steeping brown liquid are several bright green mint leaves. Over the top of the mug the pale young man smiles at her before rearranging his hands on his keyboard.

Sitting up, she asks slowly, “How- Where did you find fresh mint?” As if that were the most important part of anything in her life right now. But it’s a start, getting a handle on one thing might lead to others.

“It’s what I do,” he explains with a smile, then returns to his laptop.

She is two finger widths away from sipping the too-hot tea when a knock at the door frame interrupts her. Dr. de Fer is standing there, one hand on her hip. She is not smiling, which is not altogether surprising since she has never liked Cole. Yet, Regina has always had a rapport of sorts with the brilliant woman. Then again, Regina has thought on occasion that if she wore heels all day she probably wouldn’t smile either. Here and now, however, there is no ambiguity as to her attending’s consternation.

“Dr. Trevelyan, a word, if you please.” Tea back to the table, Regina stands without hesitation. It’s worse than a command. Her attending’s polite sweetness is always inversely proportional to how pissed she is.

She scoots away from the table without a word. Cole whispers encouragements at her back, but holds his seat. Dr. de Fer waits for her to take three steps before she turns in the direction of the examination room. God, save her.

She puts on her professional facade immediately before she steps out of the break room, and the timing could not be more apt. Forrest’s father is standing just behind Dr. de Fer, who waits for her arrival to mediate whatever exchange is about to take place. At least there is no delay for her to build up more and more panic over it. She only has time to inhale before he tears into her.

How dare she speak to his son that way? What kind of physician is she? Does she treat all of her patients with the same bedside manner and care? Doesn’t she know that he’s been traumatized and has not come to the hospital to be belittled and tormented? She says nothing through it all, though she frowns slightly at the idea of ‘torment.’ The young man was skateboarding in a middle class neighborhood during summer break and was brought to the hospital in a Lexus, if his father’s keychain is any indication.

Of course the frown is what he picks up on, and his noting it only makes him angrier. He berates her for a few more minutes while Regina bears up under every word. She does not flinch or fidget. She does not shove her hands into her lab coat. He’s right, in a way. She should not have said it, should not have said anything _close_ to it. She should have been more professional, kinder. She should have controlled herself better. Probably in a lot of ways.

In the end, when her turn to speak finally comes, she holds his eye and offers, “I apologize for offending you and your son. It was unprofessional of me and not fair to him.”

The offended party stares at her with a stink eye, possibly assuaged, though she cannot entirely tell, he’s so angry.

He spits out, “That’s it?”

Regina inhales, not sure if she’s trying to mend his entitlement or his pride, and evenly says, “I won’t defend myself, sir. What I said was entirely inappropriate and you have my sincerest apology.”

He rolls his eyes and storms away. Vivienne waits exactly two beats before calmly following after the man. Regina feels the first prickle of tears in her eyes but manages them, in her opinion, admirably. Dr. de Fer stares at her curiously as she walks after the family member and Regina turns away from their exchange. She does not depart, knowing the ‘discussion’ is not over. Sure enough, Vivienne returns a few minutes later. There is no expectation of relief on her part, and her attending offers none.

"Now, doctor, perhaps you care to tell me what all of this is about," the older woman commands.  Her face is soft, but that's only because she has trained herself not to be reactionary and inflammatory.

"I apologize, Dr. de Fer.  My incredulity got the better of me.  I shouted and-"

"Dear, you may spare me a recounting of the details I already know.  Explain your intent."

"I... I have no excuses."

Vivienne stares down at her with a slightly pursed mouth.  Her eagle eye is piercing for several seconds as she makes her own determination of the situation, but what can Regina tell her?  I'm mopey because my maybe-boyfriend won't call me?  Even in her own head it's a condemnation.  What would her professional advisor think? 

That much becomes clear a moment later.

“You’ll receive a warning in your file for this, Regina. Come by my office tonight just after the end of shift to sign off that you have read and understand its contents.”

“Yes, doctor,” she answers, swallowing down her tears. Dr. de Fer is right, and the patient’s father is right, and maybe even Henry and Josephine are right. Damn it all.

Her attending turns away, calling out, “And perhaps, tonight, try getting some rest.”

Regina watches her tuck her hands into her lab coat and purposefully depart down the hall, her heels clacking every step of the way. She does not do anything so telling as rub her forehead or let her tears fall. Half of the shift remains before she can depart for home and perhaps some sleep, or a stiff drink.

For now, though, she pulls out her phone and begins to type.

 

 


	12. Go That Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a story full of interventions, they're not _quite_ interventions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listened to [Scars on 45](https://youtu.be/VK2zL8gc8Kg) a LOT for writing this chapter. This is pretty much my anthem for Cullen x Regina. [Psssst, this video is a little weird at the beginning, so maybe don't watch it if you're upset by a waaaay toned down Alien-esque stomach... surprise.... thing- annnnnd none of this has any bearing on the story- just the song!]

Thunders is too packed for his liking when they settle in for a happy hour trivia snack. Amid his friends and coworkers- Cassandra, Vallen, Thrask, Carroll- it should be easier not to think about his current predicament than it is.

This is supposed to be comfortable, isn't it? Sitting around having a beer and a burger with people who expected nothing more of him than he is willing to give, who think he gives plenty. He imagines Regina would like the restaurant, old wood and a little more snooty than he typically prefers, but it’s Cassandra’s pick. He also magines that she would not cajole him into the packed space no matter how long it has been since he’s been out. Blame for that rests at Carroll’s feet.

And yet, he is still thinking about her.

He turns from his pilsner and his dwindling fries toward the conversation Captain Vallen and Sergeant Thrask are having about one of their ongoing cases. It is hard to hear with Carroll sitting between him and the captain, not to mention an announcer blaring inane questions over the restaurant's speakers. After a few moments he gives up and turns to Cassandra, who is texting on her phone.

"Someone interesting?" he asks before reaching for the last few bites of his sandwich.

"Perhaps," she says without smiling. Work, then.

He finishes chewing, preparing to follow up on her reticence when Carroll asks loudly at his ear, "So Rutherford, when are you going to tell us about your trip?" Cullen glances at his fellow officer and then to Cassandra, wondering how word has managed to travel through the ranks so quickly. "Must have been nicer in Florida than here," he continues blithely, scraping ketchup onto his own fries, "and probably hot, too. How come you haven't tanned?"

It had been hot, of course, and there had been plenty of time spent in the sun, Regina grinning at him or burying his feet in sand and then pretending to know nothing about arcade games. Of course, the reason why he has not tanned is mingled with that remembrance- her encouragement to protect himself and no inclination on his part to refuse. Not that he is going to share such a thing with Carroll.

"Sunscreen," he answers before taking the final bite of his burger. Beside him Carroll frowns and he can feel Cassandra shift tellingly even while she remains quiet.

"That's it, man? Some of us don't vacation for another two months! Let us live vicariously at least!" Cullen frowns and sighs.

“It was a learning experience,” is all else he offers. Taking a cue from Cassandra, he glances at his own blank mobile.

Carroll sputters briefly with exaggerated indignation before the sarcasm rolls out of his mouth, “Excellent! A veritable documentary of information about the Gulf Coast.”

Before Cullen can protest, Cassandra interrupts for him, "Tell me. Do you find us digging into _your_ personal affairs, Queen of Antiva?" Cullen glances up and over and Carroll's face is already bright with red. He half-grins and holds up his hands in surrender. Certainly he does not deny the accusation. Cassandra turns back to her phone without a word.

"Aside from extracurricular activities," Vallen calls from down the table, "How is studying going for the sergeant's test?"

The question is pitched to carry to him, and he stalls at the abrupt shift in topics. It is not a wise idea to try to brush off the Captain in the same way as Carroll, but neither does he want to explain that he has barely touched his study materials. The test itself has not been on his mind since he told Regina about it that day on the beach. Best policy at the ready, he explains, "So far so good. I've got all the materials I need and a plan to start studying this week." The captain nods as if she approves of this course of action while Thrask smiles.

"I think you'll do well," the older officer confides. "We could do with a few more Rutherfords in our ranks." Cullen's fingers still at the unexpected, and certainly unsolicited praise, and Cassandra smiles proudly from across the table.

"I appreciate the vote of confidence," he utters. Vallen nods again before she resumes her conversation with Thrask, their voices drowned out by the trivia announcer.

It is encouraging to see that in some ways he is moving in the right direction. First the counseling and now the opportunity for advancement. Even with his past hurts, he can move forward, it seems. The test, and its possible commendation, will enable him to help more people, both in the community and the city at large. He is meant to protect people, and what better way? Another counseling session awaits him tomorrow, and he is looking forward to getting more off of his chest.

Yet he can not think about the convergence of these steps without thinking of Regina, the quiet voice to Cassandra's shout, the soft touch to his friend's heavy hand. She is the one who patiently waited on him and encouraged him when he hadn’t trusted himself not to break.

And he can not think of Regina without thinking of her lips on his, her hand holding his, her arms around him in encouragement and support. She has been a banner for him, grounding him in her faith, faith that he has borrowed until he could see his own again. Faith in himself.

Cassandra sets down her phone with a grunt, breaking into his thoughts, as he realizes with an awkward feeling that they have not spoken much at all since well before his trip south. She knows how it ended, mostly from Regina, but has neither pressed him for details nor bullied him for upsetting their mutual friend.

"It's not a war," she explained when he asked her why she had been so calm about it all, "and there are no sides to take." It’s made it easier to share his side of events without fear of condemnation. She knows it all and yet he knows little of what was happening in her own life.

"So, what have I missed lately?" he asks suddenly, gesturing towards her person awkwardly.

She hefts a well-manicured eyebrow at him with measured consternation as she answers flatly, "Many things."

Cullen flushes, cutting his eyes away guiltily for a moment. Unrelenting, she explains, "The Nationals swept the Pirates in their second series while you were away. A new installment of my favorite serial is coming out soon. Many other things, too, yet I do not wish to speak of them until you are...." Here she lifts a hand and flicks her fingers at him, "yourself again. Your mind is not here."

He winces, both at the accusation and the loud cheer that goes up around the bar at some properly answered question. Cassandra signals for another beer.

"Surely I haven't been that bad," he protests.

"You have."

Her reassurance is not comforting, and it seems that will be all she will say on the matter.

“I’m not sure that’s fair,” Cullen digs, feeling a little defensive at the accusation.

“Oh?” Cassandra asks, looking at him as her refill is set down and her empty mug taken away. “My apologies. I did not mean to imply condemnation. Only, were I in your shoes, I might be- no, I would _definitely_ act more speedily than you have.”

Cullen sighs, resisting the urge to grab his neck. He diverts to his brow instead, rubbing the aging skin as he explains, “You weren’t there. You don’t know what happened.”

“No,” Cassandra agrees. “But I know _you_.” There is a small smile on her face. “I know the you from before, and I know the you from now, and I know which one is better.”

The words are heavy between them, praise and fact and he feels his heart swell both with realization and regret.

“Oh, I wasn’t likable before now, hmm?” A dark sentiment, but an acceptable joke in light of the fact that he believes her. That he believes in himself. He chuckles with earned self-deprecation.

“That’s _not_ what I said. I like you the same as I ever did. You’re _better_ now,” she asserts, frowning smartly at him.

Cullen stares at her, moved and bolstered by her confidence. He draws against the back of his chair, wondering if he has been as bad as Cassandra claims and quickly knowing the truth of it. The realization doesn’t hurt as it once might have.

"All right, next person who can correctly answer this question wins a free round on the house," the announcer’s voice breaks into the lull around the bar, and several pairs of shoulders simultaneously straighten. Cullen half-listens to the noise breaking against his thoughts. "What is the name of this Scottish band, particularly well known for this one hit wonder." The question cuts off as a set of plucky guitar strings begins to strum through the bar. Cullen chuckles before he can catch himself.

"The Proclaimers," he announces to no one in particular, remembering unsteady hands and a weak smile. His own voice was steady enough for once, the stronger of two.

" _Confidence_ ," Josephine had assured him.

"What, you're sure?" Carroll asks suddenly, drawing him back into the present and making him aware that someone has been listening after all.

"Uh, yes?" he half-answers while Cassandra stares at him. Carroll tears off from the table toward the announcer's station while Cullen meets his friend's gaze. Her eyebrows shift, pinning in their intensity.

"What's different?" she asks, and there is no lag between them.

Still, he answers, "Nothing," and the words are so freeing that he laughs. "I just _see_ it. I know what I need to do."

"Then if you know, go," Cassandra says, almost pleading. She pulls his keys and the rest of his beer out of his reach. "I'll take care of your bill." Cullen starts, but he does not argue. He needs… a cab.

"I- I suspect I owe you one."

"That is well established. Now go."

No one is surprised that he leaves the bar first. They don’t even try to stop him. Outside he hails a taxi service while Cassandra’s words are in his head. Henry’s words are in his head. Regina’s words are in his head. It would be easy to be lost in all of them, to be overwhelmed and crushed beneath them, to spend the night in his apartment pacing the floor while Regina tries to study or sleep below.

Except here in this moment, he doesn’t feel compelled to give ground to any of it. He feels strong enough to think about it. He feels stable enough to consider these unpleasant possibilities, or maybe even the pleasant ones and their baggage, without being overwhelmed by them. Maybe he _is_ better.

He reaches into his pocket and grabs his phone.

* * *

 

A question breaks into her moping and Regina blinks.

A cool, opaque glass is placed in her line of sight, already dropping condensation onto a tile coaster.

She does bother lifting her half-smushed face from the couch. It's one of the comfier ones she's had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with and she's in no hurry to desist with the association. The fact that she has been lying here for over an hour certainly has no bearing on her decision. Her phone has not buzzed in a while, and Cullen still has not called.

The fingers around the cup disappear and the question is repeated, “You sure you don’t want anything else?” Nimrael Lavellan drops herself into the space between Regina’s knees, giving her rump an affectionate pat before curling her feet up onto the upholstery.

“No, thank you,” Regina answers softly, looking at the new glass next to an untouched martini, which is next to a shot of untouched whiskey. The beverages are bordered by hazelnut spiral wafers and homemade pain au chocolat. This spread is the stuff of dreams, and she wants none of it. All she wants is to smush her face into this comfortable couch and just let the world disappear for a while.

It has been a shitty few days. Between the debacle that was Destin, Cullen not speaking to her, and the warning that is now resting in her permanent record, she could probably use a drink. He has not tried her phone or knocked on her door. Even their shared floor-ceiling has been adamantly silent. Despite her faith in his character, that he will not leave her hanging without an answer, worry has begun eating away at her confidence. In their last parting, he said nothing, barely communicated at all. Her face scrunches as she remembers the sad expression he had leveled at her.

Has she not given him enough time? Pushed too hard? She apologized for that tendency in herself, coming across too strong at the worst times, but maybe apology isn't enough. Either way, she cannot bear to be alone in her apartment any longer right now.

“Let me know if that changes,” Nim urges soothingly, even as Solas appears around the corner with another tray of goodies, this time fresh macarons. The confections are all pastel colors: yellow, lavender, pale mint. They are gorgeously frilly and after a moment of hesitation, Regina takes one of each without surrendering her position. Solas chuckles as Nim agrees, “Oh, good choice.”

She’s known the couple the same length of time, the same they have known each other, actually, and that nearing six years. Or is it seven? It’s been at least that long since she was in undergraduate philosophy with Nim, where they bonded over Aristotle and shared admiration of their brilliant professor, who was currently doling out sweets. Their difference is that Regina outgrew her crush while Nim’s had matured into something deep and lasting. With bravery or recklessness, some kind of fearlessness, she pursued the man and Regina could not remember if this was their fourth or fifth year of marriage.

What matters is that they are together, and they make it look _easy_. Neither of them are close to what is happening with Cullen, either.

“So are you going to lie there all day or do you imagine you’ll explain the situation at some point?” Solas asks as he takes a seat just the other side of their coffee table. Regina grimaces and pops a whole macaron in her mouth rebelliously. He waits, propping his jaw on his fist as her face soothes in the presence of sugar and flour and butter. God, the man knows what he’s about.

Nim interjects her own opinion, “Maybe you should just call.”

“I already said I wouldn’t,” Regina admits after she swallows the remains of the tiny lemon cake. It’s not that she doesn’t want to. She does. Oh, how she wants to. Just a few taps of her finger and she could connect to him, but she’ _can’t_.

“Did you?” Soles queries sharply. His tone softens almost immediately, “Why?”

She’s certain that part of the problem is that she rushed him. Had they talked about where they were at all before she kissed him? Later he had said yes, they were on the same page, but he’s a grown man and not a static rock. What if he just felt pressured? She can’t call him. The invitation is there for him to call her, when _he’s_ ready. And if he’s not ready then nothing happens.

Well, not precisely nothing. Tears and gelato… and wine. And a whole hell of a lot more of these macarons.

What she says is, "Because… he's dealing with a lot? Because everything seemed so rushed together? Because I don't want him to feel like I'm influencing a decision that should be made independently?"

"A commendable attitude, and yet…” Solas leaves the words hanging as if she might be able to pick up his thought. She has not been good at following that particular train since she earned her A and never looked back.

"Hmmm," N follows, then nibbles her way around the a cookie, shifting her glance from Regina to Solas and back.

"Yes," Solas agrees, before taking a deep sip from his coffee, though to what he is agreeing Regina is not sure. Nim hasn't even _said_ anything, as far as she can tell.

"'Hmmm' what, oh loquacious one?" she asks pointedly.

Nim draws her attention as she sets her down her tea delicately, purposefully, and curls an easy hand around Regina's neck before stroking her back in a soothing manner. It should be soothing, anyway. It feels like a wolf about to pounce.

"Just that if you refuse to talk to Emory and you refuse to talk to Henry and you refuse to talk to Cullen, when is anything going to be resolved?" she asks gently. Gently like an axe asks a block of wood to split.

Regina scowls, shifting to look up at her. Nimrael meets her stare without discomfort, rich lilac eyes blinking quickly. Yet there is concern enough there to match Regina's sudden ire. Solas meets her accusatory gaze without flinching when she turns it on him.

"You know those situations are all _completely_ different."

"I do,” Solas agrees, and it should not surprise her that he knows as much as he does. He and Nim don’t keep secrets. “Yet what is their commonality?"

The question exposes her innards to daylight and she wants desperately to hide from them both. But she can't even flee from the couch, pinned as she is by her old friend and the reality of the situation. What’s worse is that she knows neither of them mean her harm. Hadn’t she learned that even before she took Hippocrates’ Oath?

Harm and hurt are not one in the same.

"That… Well that hurts," she finally murmurs, wondering vaguely if Cullen ever felt this way those times she held a mirror up to his face. He had been so much braver about it, so honest with himself about his own nature, while she is terrified to answer a simple question in the safety of friends.

"It's certainly not _meant_ to," Nim affirms softly, dropping a hand between her shoulder blades. Regina lowers back to the couch like someone has switched her off. Tears begin tracking with gravity, down into the soft cushions. Suddenly _every_ thing feels like her fault. Apparently she can face every problem that comes to her doorstep, unless it is her own. Yet Cullen and his life and his problems have become so thoroughly tangled with her that she feels hamstrung with old fear and the new fear of inevitable loss.

Where do they go from here?

"Regina, sit up," Solas commands. His tone is gentle and doesn't sting, but it is a command- the same way he used to urge students to think instead of waiting to be fed information. Maybe it's his time or how she feels so unanchored or maybe it's just the macarons, but she does. Nimrael moves out of the way, taking a seat next to Solas instead, and Regina settles into the vacated space in time to see her link their hands together discreetly.

"You need to stop acting like this. It's childish, and it's unworthy of you."

This time she does not even try to hide her defensiveness, drawing away from the pair as she snaps, "Oh, excuse me for being sad. Yes. It's very childish."

He sighs, explaining, "Don't be obtuse. You know very well that wallowing in your misery and waiting for things to happen is not how you affect change."

She shakes her head adamantly, "Solas, I know him. OK? He's the kind of person who is just… down to earth and he doesn't play games or try to dramatize the situation. He is anti-drama. If he doesn't want to call me, it's because he's made up his mind." Assertive words all of them, spoken with the certainty of one who knows him. Her tears tell her they should have free rein, but instead of letting them she reaches for the whiskey to take a bracing sip.

Nim looks worried, but Solas is unflappable.

"If he is all the things you say, he will do you the courtesy of explaining himself. One way or another. You have _given_ him time to call you. Waiting any longer does a disservice to you both."

"So I just march over there and… what? Demand answers? Demand what I already know?"

“You don’t know anything. Not yet.”

Well, what response can she give to that? Besides pointless arguing? The silence that follows Solas’ words is not exactly tense, but it is not light, either.

All three are interrupted by the unmistakable chirrup of her phone. Regina scrambles off of the couch as Nim jumps to her feet, eliciting a whump of discomfort from Solas as she pushes off of him. It's in her deep bag, which she promptly dumps all over the wooden floor.

A snatch for the phone and she glances curiously at the caller ID before unlocking it, asking, "Hello?"

Cassandra's voice is competing with several other background noises, her texts having fallen off a few hours earlier, but even with the extra noise, she is plain enough, "He's looking for you."

Regina’s heart settles at the words. Then it trembles because Cullen has not called _her_. Yet he's looking for her- wanting a conversation that can't be held over the phone.

She takes a deep breath, "I'm on my way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this what qualifies as a cliffhanger?
> 
> Many, many thanks to [Splashbananagrenadine](http://flashbanggrenade.tumblr.com) for the use of her Nimrael Lavellan, to whom I may or may not have done justice. I love when other people let me borrow their Inquisitors for cameos :D Thank you!
> 
> I'm not thrilled with this chapter as a whole, but I am thrilled with parts of it. Cassandra, most definitely. Solas, a little bit. Cullen, yes. Regina, less so. Also, I probably should have been apologizing the whole way through this story for the use of present tense. I don't know what possessed me to even start with it, but it's difficult when your narration is addressing things that have already happened. Do I use "has happened" more or what? I haven't had an English class in 10+ years and not a grammar class in closer to 20 x.x Still I persist.
> 
> One more chapter to goooooo!! EEEEEeeeep. WHAT DO YOU THINK WILL HAPPEN? D:


	13. Reconciled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Give it time.

The trip back to the duplex is quiet. Nimrael drives, more for consideration of Regina's emotions than concern for the thimble full of alcohol she consumed almost an hour ago. Solas follows behind them with his lights on. The day has become overcast and small, sporadic droplets are plinking against the windshield every few seconds.

"You're going to be fine," Nimrael assures her, eyes on the road ahead.

Probably, Regina recognizes. She's always fine in the end, but that never seems to come without a few bruises along the way. Yet the words are meant as kindness and that's how Regina chooses to accept them. So she turns her head, gives a half smile, and slowly looks away. It's what she can manage right now. Nim does not demand more.

Cullen calls Cassandra and tells Cassandra to call Regina and let her know he was looking for her? Why doesn't he call her himself if he wants to talk? She has a few theories, but the answers to that question are less than encouraging.

Nim wants her to have hope, but Regina has spent days clutching faith in her hands so tightly that she's exhausted, ready to drop it.

When they arrive at the duplex, she feels a moment of confusion. Cullen's Jeep is here but the patrol car is gone. There are always two vehicles present when he's home. Surely, Cassandra would not lead her astray. No, the woman is as steady as the tides with not a lying bone in her body. Maybe he's been and left already. That must be it. Dammit. It makes no sense if her is truly looking for her, but she can think of nothing else.

New understanding draws a long breath from her as she considers just sitting in the car, trying to wait out the increasing rain. Waiting for what, though? Or to what end? She has no idea. Really, it would only serve to slowly make Nim miserable, and Regina doesn't want that. Just because she's edging in that direction doesn't mean she has to drag others down with her.

"Thanks again for the ride," she intones, reaching for the door handle.

"Of course, my friend. Please call me when there's been some kind of resolution."

"A very polite way to _not_ name possibilities," Regina notes and Nimrael grins. Still, she concedes, "It might be a while before that call happens."

"Understood," Nim acknowledges. Regina does not know if her friend is being impatient or cute or just herself, but the clipped answer spurs her to open the door. The rain is coming hard now, and she walks quickly to Solas's car, instead of the apartment itself. The window is halfway down when she arrives. Nim is scrambling for the passenger seat.

"Farewells can wait," Solas chastises. "It's raining!"

"It's summer rain," she retorts, as if that is explanation enough. Near as he comes to rolling his eyes, he manages some restraint, only humming in a way that finally helps Regina smile.

"Thank you, Solas. For everything."

Here his face softens. It's the sly expression that used to make her heart flutter. Now she only pauses, grateful for his consistency.

"You've a strong, bright spirit, Regina. Don't forget."

The kind words make her smile briefly, perfunctorily. She pats the roof of the car and heads toward her front door, dutifully avoiding looking up toward Cullen's. Her hair and ears are dripping by the time she fishes her keys from her bag, but she doesn’t care. Meshed and wrung out, she just wants it to be done.

That he hasn't called in nearly four days time might not mean anything, as Solas and Nim have tried to reassure her. Those two, and Henry and Josie… She has plenty of examples to look to for solid relationships that have overcome their troubles. Now is not the time to give up. What would it do, to offer him time, to give patience, and then abandon it all when the road gets a little rough? It would make her a hypocrite and the worst kind of liar. She is made of sterner stuff. Besides, giving up is not an option.

Such are the thoughts she tries to hold onto, anyway.

It’s inescapable that she has bounced back and forth between two extremes of hope and despair for a man who has not bothered to call her in almost a week (just over four days, but still) when he happens to be one of the more decisive people she knows. Has he really been making up his mind? Or killing time to get his courage up and tell her he doesn't want her around anymore?

The door sticks a little in the humidity, but it's cool inside. She has forgotten to turn off the AC. The door closes silently behind her. Her bag falls from loose fingers to the floor next to her quickly discarded shoes. 'Not giving up' does not mean she cannot drown her sorrows in gelato either.

Afterward, maybe she'll just bite the bullet and call him. Solas is right. There has been plenty of time for him to call her if he'd wanted.

Decided, she flexes her toes into the hardwood floor before she turns, ready to plunder the freezer, and instead screams as loudly as her throat will permit, fear and surprise all bursting forth in a horrendous shriek. Cullen throws his hands into the air, his face turning white as she recognizes him, cutting herself off with a gasp.

"Oh my God!" she cries, dropping back against the door. Beneath her hand, her heart is pounding a furious tempo. How long has he been standing there?

Cullen runs a hand over his eyes before he drops it abruptly, saying with a defunct, forced enthusiasm, "Hi."

Annoyed as he is, annoyed as _she_ is, she finds she is still glad to see him. A laugh wants to shake it's way out of her throat, but she quickly pushes it away, saying softly, "Hi," as she lifts herself from the door. Some of his color returns and he half-smiles at her.

"Hi," he echoes, just as tempered.

Silence stretches between them as he stares at her, as she tries not to further irritate him, not to fidget. His triggers are still front and center in her mind, and she knows she’s lucky to not have sent him into an attack with her surprised shout.

"You're… Uh…" She hums haltingly. Then she scuffs her bare toes against the floor once. Just once before she realizes how equivocating and unsure she might seem. That is not at all what she wants. “You startled me."

"I startled _you_? The neighbors are going to think I’m trying to murder you… I feel like my ear drums are still reverberating. If you could bottle that and use it against attackers, you'd make a killing.” The words are ensconced in a chuckle and she smiles, every syllable gently loosening the knot of tension in her chest. He’s still smiling at her, and the certainty of his expression juxtaposed against the anxiety of the past few days suddenly makes her want to cry.

Despite the paleness in his face, he looks well, rested and healthy. It’s further condemnation that he’s doing fine without her. She should be happy about it, right? No matter what they have said, they are _friends_ first, and she wants him to be happy, to be well.

"Why are you here?" she asks, walking forward and slipping past him toward the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen watches her go, his fingers twitching at the sight of her shoulders sloping and her eyes angling to the floor. She looks defeated, her quiet laughter from their fearful exchange gone. He has the beginnings of a headache, and it will be a doozy later, but for now it’s bearable. The more important task is the one laid out before him.

“ _Why are you here_?” is the question posed to him. Her back is to him as his eyes follow her, watching her dig through her ice chest. She rummages with purpose until she pulls out a small container of gelato.

It’s a new side of her, seeing this angle of her hurt, but he sees it for what it is. The young woman who charges headlong into problems, even those that aren’t her own, and refuses to be moved when believes in right… They haven’t spoken in a few days, and he doesn’t know what entirely is going through her head, but he knows her framework, and he knows that the same woman who demanded he pull off of the freeway so she could (affectionately) yell at him would rather he have called sooner than later. He also knows that her patience has been eating her alive.

“ _Why are you here_?” is the question she wants answered.

“I’m sorry,” is the answer he gives, wanting to explain his delay, but Regina stops him short. Her shoulders hunch as she reaches for a spoon. One hand abandons cutlery to cover her mouth and her shoulders rise as she takes a deep breath.

His train of thought is derailed at the sight of her struggling so, and he inquires, “Reggie?”

She nods sharply, and when she asks, “Mhmm?” her voice is fast, thin, high.

“Hey,” he begins, and she turns, her eyes bright and focused.

“It’s OK,” she affirms, even as her knuckles turn white under the force of her grip on the counter. He watches her carefully, and she nods again. Never has he seen such a forced smile. “You look really well, and you look… happy. I’m glad. I think I understand.”

Cullen’s shoulders slump as he watches her, the way her eyes thin out, her jaw clenching. She’s so unhappy, but he can see that she wants to be. Oh, it makes his heart ache because he _believes_ her, believes that she wants to believe what she’s saying.

“I don’t think you do,” he counters.

Her pause is tangible. Briefly, she looks up at him, then up to the ceiling as she blinks rapidly. “What do you think is happening here?” he adds softly. A huff of laughter answers him, desperate and stuttering. He takes another step toward her, slowly closing the distance between them.

“Well, you’re standing there… And right now… That’s about all I’ve got.” Finally, she looks at him, and he tilts his head in question even as he reaches a hand out to her. She nods again, and he can see the moment her lips draw back, her eyes tighten, that she’s been holding on for a while. Then her fingers close around his and he does not even have to pull her to him. She’s _there_.

“Come here, darling,” he soothes, arms wrapping around her shoulders. Her jaw is trembling against his neck as her first whimper runs a course through his skin. He closes his eyes before he presses a kiss against her temple. The skin is wet from rain-soaked hair. “We’re all right,” he assures her, and she nods again, fists pressing against his back.

It’s not the way he imagined this going. These tears aren’t happy, and part of her confusion is due to his timing. There is a resolution in him, not to let this happen again, not to let them come so close to falling. He has been pushing himself, working toward his own healing and that with her help. It will not be overmuch to work a little harder on this.

“I thought you’d made up your mind,” she sniffles, words choked around her crying.

“So I see…” he laughs gently. “For what it’s worth, I have.”

“I meant the _other_ way,” she says, laughing, too.

“No.”

The declaration is supposed to make her relax, but she holds tighter to him, the sum of untold fears spasming through her fingers. Her shaky breath is hot through the shoulder of his shirt and he turns so he can lean against the counter while she calms.

“ _This is a bit of role reversal,_ ” he thinks to himself.

They breathe.

Understanding evens the tension out to nothing, betters the atmosphere while Regina nuzzles against his shoulder, situating her hands more comfortably around him. Cullen grins, feeling the shift in her. They’re a pair now, and when one of them is off, the other suffers. To see her made well makes his heart easy.

He plants another easy kiss against her crown and she sighs.

“Sorry for getting so worked up. Am I a complete dork?” she asks quietly.

“Not a complete dork,” he mumbles.

“Ok, good… We’re good?”

“Very good.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading this fic and for encouraging me with your comments! I don't have the best track record with finishing stories, so thank you for helping me stick with it!
> 
> I hope that the ending doesn't disappoint, but I did not see the need to draw out extraneous drama for a situation that is already painful enough with doubt and uncertainty.
> 
> OH LOOK, THERE'S AN EPILOGUE.


	14. Epilogue

Cassandra grunted to herself as the phone call went to voicemail for the third time. That man! She had not yet decided if she was going to twist his ear or punch his throat, but she was leaning towards the latter. He needed to listen, but not so much to speak. She had not yet decided what to do to Regina, who had called her nearly non-stop for the past two days, wondering about Cullen and if he was all right and if he was thinking about calling her. Now neither of them were answering _her_ calls, nor her SMS. Yet she was expected to drop everything for them? Regina was in some ways stronger than Cullen, but perhaps not in her bone structure and musculature. Berating might serve her better.

Somewhat satisfied, she jogged up the stairs to his apartment. Carroll was outside, parking Cullen’s patrol car in the drive, under strict orders not to follow her while she sorted out this troublesome endeavor.

She knocked once, then counted to twenty. At the answer of silence, she dug into her pocket and pulled out a stout loop of keys. Cullen’s was a familiar one, covered with a plastic case that marked it clearly from her others.

Not for the first time, Cassandra wondered if she had been too rash the day she had recruited Regina to intervene in Cullen’s life. Something had happened from that moment onward, tying the two of them together in ways they had not even seemed to notice until their trip to Florida. Closer and closer they had walked until their steps were synchronized, both in their pace and direction, slowing when one slowed and speeding when the other sped. It was only when one of them tumbled completely that their instinctive understanding of each other was put to the test.

“ _But what is a relationship if not overcoming?_ ” Cassandra asked herself silently, quietly opening the door to his apartment. She walked toward the back bedroom quickly, wondering if he was perhaps taking a nap as he often did when he had headaches or was overwhelmed by the day. Yet his door was open, and even in the dark she could see that the bed was empty.

The rest of the dwelling was just as empty, and she took a deep breath before she departed, locking the door carefully behind her. Down the stairs she trod to Regina’s apartment, reaching for the door handle with only a moment’s hesitation. Should she enter at all? She and Regina were not as close as she and Cullen, though they had become more familiar over the past several months, and the young woman _had_ been calling her for several days.

“ _What I do now, I do with pure motivations_ ,” Cassandra assured herself, and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked.

Even had she not remembered the times she had been here before, the layouts of the two apartments were similar enough that she could find her way through the low lighting. It only took a few steps before she heard voices.

“You said _what_?”

“Cullen, listen. The child… he was acting like an _idiot_. Skateboarding with two broken wrists when you’re going to be casted like a zombie- or like you’re doing the robot? No! Just… no.”

Laughter answers the put-upon explanation. Laughter echoes laughter.

“I’m really glad you’re here, you know? Even if you did scare the daylights out of me.”

“I think we’ve been over who scared whom more.”

A hum of uncertainty.

“Did you really think I’d come here to break up with you? After what we said in Destin?”

“After Henry talked to you, after you seemed to agree with him… I didn’t know what to think. Then I didn’t hear from you and I just got so wrapped up in my own thoughts. I thought you might think you were better off without… someone… right now.”

“You mean without you?”

“…Is it too soon to say that?”

“Not at all.”

“Then… yes. ‘Without me’.”

“No… Though, I thought you might be better off without _me_.” An expression Cassandra could not see caused Cullen to chuckle. “I just took time to think about everything, to consider what might happen one way or the other… I never said we were brilliant. Well, I may have said _you_ are brilliant.”

“Of course, you may continue to flatter me to your heart’s content, of course.”

“Oh? I look forward to it.”

Another pause. Another chuckle from Cullen. “I think I’m also going to look forward to calling your bluff.”

“Well…!”

He outright laughed and then, “Oof! All right, all right!” Cassandra found herself approving.

Aware that she had been standing silently around the corner for, in her estimation, too long, she cleared her throat loudly and turned the corner. They were lying on the couch, pressed tightly together to share the space. Regina had a towel slung over one shoulder while Cullen had only taken off his gun belt but was still in uniform. Both of them were looking at her with startled expressions and had never heard the door open at all.

No concern for self-preservation, obviously.

“Cassandra!” Regina said with relief, making to sit up.

“Is something wrong?” Cullen asked carefully, a hand to the back of the couch to start lifting himself.

“That depends what you define as ‘wrong’,” Cassandra offered, one hand coming to rest on her hip. “Cullen, you left quickly, but you were supposed to contact me to let me know you arrived home safely. Regina, you have been texting me for days, and I assumed you would do me the kindness of updating me when you found some answers.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Sorry.”

But before they could lapse into grandiose overtures, both turned to look at each other, and Cullen asked, “Calling for days?”

“Well I couldn’t call you after I said I wouldn’t, could I? Besides, what made you leave trivia night so quickly, hmmm?” Despite her defense, Regina sounded entirely smug and satisfied and Cassandra groaned.

Interrupting again, she remarked, “As you two are obviously well and accounted for, I will bid you both good evening.” Duty done, she turned on her heel and made a beeline for the exit.

“Thank you, Cass!” Regina called after her, laughing. Cullen said something low that caused her to shriek with giggling, and Cassandra rolled her eyes, hastening her steps. She set the door to lock after her.

When the laughter followed her outside, she closed the door with a quiet click and smiled.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Always Shall Be Your Friend](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3842674) by [Fumm95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fumm95/pseuds/Fumm95)




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